


Paint Me Alive

by helianskies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: And he seems to have a habit of falling for the wrong people, And no matter how hard he tries, Antonio is a lost soul, But they haven't got a clue what's happening behind the scenes, Distrust, Domestic Violence, Family Issues, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Multi, No one seems to treat him quite right, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Relationship Problems, Unhealthy Relationships, Who keeps getting himself into bad situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-08-16 16:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16499237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: Antonio struggles to deal with the unspoken thing that exists in his relationship with Francis and Gilbert. More and more, there seems to be a widening rift between them all and he steps closer to its edge every time it shifts, knowing he will fall.When a silence tips everyone over the edge at once, however, Antonio finds himself falling into the wrong place entirely and has to work hard in order to climb back to what he had.But what if it was never worth the climb in the first place?





	1. We Broken Few

They had known each other for quite a long while. They claimed to know what one of the others was thinking without the words needing to fall into the air, but in reality, this was not as easy for them as they claimed.

Francis was the best at recognising the subtlest of emotions—the positive ones, the ones of love or appreciation or gratefulness or bliss—but it was only ever the good he saw. His blue eyes were blinded to anything that was not of happiness or joy. It was not something he would openly admit, but he knew this fault. He just did not spend time correcting it.

For Gilbert, he was better at seeing people who were uncomfortable, nervous or stressed. It was not the strongest of perceptions; there were times when he missed things or saw things that were not there, but either way, the others seemed to appreciate that he would show his concern and keep an eye out for their wellbeing.

But Antonio?

Everyone thought he was a bit too simple, that his head was constantly full of hot air, that he hadn’t the faintest idea of what was happening around him clandestinely.

Of course, they couldn’t have been more wrong about the poor Spaniard. At times, he could be more aware than anyone else in the room, but if anything seemed wrong, he would always choose to not make a scene and wait until there was privacy before addressing anything that seemed off. And if someone seemed happier than normal? It took exactly the same principal.

He was a more troubled soul than people cared to see, too. It was not public knowledge—only those he trusted knew—but for some time he had been living as well with the alternative voices in his head which tried to dictate his life. Francis and Gilbert had become anchors to keep Antonio in place, safe and secure, and for that he was more grateful that he could ever sufficiently express.

This messy trio lived together in spite of their flaws. They lived, ate, laughed, cried, drank and loved together, and they wouldn’t have had it any other way. They indulged in warm winter nights huddled on the sofa, watching a film over cocoa and popcorn; they took long walks in the park together and enjoyed picnics under willow trees; they cooked as a group and danced about in the kitchen to whatever music the radio played without a care in the world.

In essence, they felt they had something perfect—a perfect dynamic that no one understood, and they didn't give a damn.

But underneath their cosy front, something was wrong. Things had been brewing for a little while, Antonio had observed, from the small tiffs to longer hours of no speaking to each other at all. And that night, something was wrong and stagnant in the air around the dinner table, and it was bothering Antonio greatly.

Silence reigned over them all as pasta and roasted vegetables were pushed around bowls, as forks clattered quietly against porcelain without consequence. No one was talking. Antonio had cooked today because both Francis and Gilbert had been out since the morning, and had only wandered back in after the sky had started to grow dark, but hardly a word had passed between any of them.

He wondered if he should ask if everything was okay. Was it an appropriate time? When _was_ it an appropriate time? Looking at both of his friends, it was so obvious to him that something was amiss; Gilbert lacked a smile, the glint in his eye, and Francis seemed unaware of his generally distressed appearance. Fuck, he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t sit there and act like nothing was wrong.

Maintaining a moment of silence, Antonio pushed his half-empty bowl forward across the wooden table and looked back at the two people (who he cared very much for) who had turned their attention to him. _Deep breath. Speak._

“What’s the matter?”

_Good start, they’ll definitely respond to that._

Francis and Gilbert glanced at each other from across the side of the table and shared what Antonio read as a look of confusion. Or was it, perhaps, a mutual understanding? After all, how could they not recognise in themselves that something was not right?

“Guys, really?” he pressed. “The silence wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t had it all day. What’s wrong, why isn’t anyone talking to me?”

“It’s just been a long day,” Gilbert unhelpfully supplied, Francis tagging on a short and bittersweet: “Nothing too interesting.”

At this, Antonio was only filled with incredulity, however. If ever there was a need to be evasive like that, then it was because that long day had been incredibly painful in one way or another; not just boring as Francis was suggesting. He would have to put his foot down.

“That’s it?” the Spaniard said, disdain in his face as he did his best to imbue them both with a small amount of guilt (he knew he was manipulative in that way, but he saw no reason to not use his skill in this instance). “Nothing… Nothing that anyone needs to get off their chest? Nothing bad, or frustrating?”

Gilbert shook his head. “No.”

“So why do I get the feeling that that’s a lie?” Antonio responded in desperation. He could feel things swarming inside of him, begging for their satisfaction.

The blonde let his fork fall into the bowl and he, too, pushed the food far from him to the centre of the rectangular table. “I think I’m going to have an early night,” he announced before rising from his seat and readying to leave.

“Fran, I—”

“Not tonight, Antonio.” He only ever used full names when he was agitated or feeling sentimental. Both of Francis’ partners had a feeling it was not the latter, however. “I will see you both in the morning,” and away he went towards one of the two bedrooms their apartment possessed.

Silence fell once more over the table, knocked only by the quieter sounds of Gilbert pushing food around his dish with the same boredom as a five-year-old. It took a lot of effort for Antonio not to snap himself and seize the offensive item before his ears began to bleed, but with another deep breath, he found his calm place once more.

“Gilbert,” he said. The German paused, but he did not lift his gaze from the cold food. “What about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“Are you going to give me the silent treatment forever, too,” Antonio elaborated, “or are you going to share whatever is bothering you?”

Red eyes met green ones, one pair trying assert a parental dominance over the other, and the other retreated its gaze in cowardice.

“This isn’t the time for interrogation, Toni,” Gilbert surrendered. His bowl swiftly joined the other two in the centre of the table. “You might want to just stay quiet for now, before you turn into the next problem on the list.”

And he got up in true Francis fashion, chair scraping against the floor, and made his exit from the room, leaving a wordless Antonio alone in the blaring light of the kitchen. His mind couldn’t quite seem to comprehend what had been said to him, the words refused to register properly.

_Before you turn into the next problem on the list._

Antonio did not like to consider himself as a particularly emotional person, but hearing those words seemed to tear a hole inside of him—in his soul—that he was not able to hide (not that there was anyone left in the room to hide it from). He could feel himself plummeting into freezing cold ocean waves, he could feel himself losing all sense of control, he could feel the ice wrapping itself around his core and his nerves broke.

He couldn’t stop the slight shaking of his hands and he tried to stay seated and think clearly about what he should do. He couldn’t stop his mind from racing and condemning his actions. He couldn’t even stop the production of tears in his eyes, which threatened fiercely to tumble down from their thrones.

What was happening to him?

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

This wasn’t who he was, this wasn’t what he was supposed to be like. He was a strong person, he was compassionate and happy and cheerful and brave—but he wasn’t. He was none of those things anymore. Antonio accepted defeat as he placed his head in his hands and caved in his seat. The world came crashing down around him and he felt his own insecurities and doubts rise from their graves.

_You’re causing them pain._

_You’re hurting both of them._

_You’re being a bastard, selfish, uncaring._

_It’s no wonder they leave you._

_They all leave you, Antonio._

_And they’ll never stop leaving you._

“Take a deep breath,” he urged himself, “they’re wrong, they’re all wrong—!”

_You’re the wrong one._

_No one cares for you anymore._

_All you do is cause more damage._

_They’ve left you._

_You’re alone._

_You’ll always be alone in the end._

The chorus of voices and doubts refused to back down. Antonio stumbled to his feet, repeating his mantra—they’re wrong, they’re lying—as he went to grab a glass of water in the hopes of refreshing his system and cleansing himself of the violent, poisonous thoughts that were plaguing him so. But he didn’t get very far. They were stronger than he was, now. They would not give in, they would not listen, they would not leave him be like everyone else in his life eventually seemed to do.

Antonio was stuck with these ghosts forever. He wished he could switch them off. He wished he were deaf to them. He wished the voice would die, fade away…

And then a new voice joined the mix. It was quieter, more distant, and it took him a moment to realise that this voice was not one of the villains living in his head. Antonio looked to the spare room where Francis had fled to. He could hear him on the phone to someone, he assumed, with voices being raised no doubt on both ends.

With his own villains hushed for now, Antonio’s body moved him closer to the door, closer to the conversation that he was not a part of, and the words that he was not meant to hear became clearer as he stood quietly and attentive outside the room.

“I am tired of doing this with you!” the Frenchman cried, trying and failing to fully control the volume of his voice. “You cannot keep changing your mind—you are either part of this family or not. I refuse to let you mess everyone around like this, Arthur!”

Antonio knew Arthur. He once knew him very well—too well, some would say—but that was in the past, where he preferred it to remain. It was through the Brit, in fact, that he had met Francis and had fallen for him. That was around three years ago when he had met Francis, come to think of it. Arthur had invited him to some party or other, which was when Antonio had learnt that Arthur was a kind of adopted brother; it was an unofficial arrangement, but he had been taken in by the Bonnefoi family after being rejected by his own blood.

At first, Antonio had been somewhat enamoured by the Brit who did not fail to charm him (to a devastating effect, in the end), until the arguments started. And other things, of course, but Francis had been there to provide the ice-cream and cheesy rom-com movies that had kept Antonio happy through it all...

“No! No—you listen to _me_ , okay?!” Francis rattled on behind the door. Antonio could hear him pacing and prepared his quick escape. “You have no idea what you’re doing to us—to me! Make a decision and stick with it before I cut you off completely!”

The call had been ended at that point, Antonio knew it. He carefully made his way away from the door in case Francis decided to head out of the flat for a walk, but after a couple of minutes, it became clear that that was not the Frenchman’s intention. Leaning against the kitchen side, he wondered what he could do. Could he help in any way, could he be a crutch, could he be some silent moral support?

_You’ll turn into the next problem on the list._

Maybe he would leave Francis to it. It was getting late, he would head to bed soon anyway.

Oh. That was a thought. Antonio supposed that, after the disaster that the day had been, tonight’s sleeping arrangements were a free-for-all—or rather a free-from-all, given how the others had divided the trio into their three spaces. Gilbert would get the master bed, big and comfortable. Francis would have the guest bed, smaller but still comfortable. And Antonio—poor, stupid Antonio—would have to live with the sofa and a blanket. Such was the price of love and idiocy, it seemed.

_This is where it begins, Toni. After this, they’ll never want to be in the same room as you again._

“Callaos,” he hissed under his breath.

He needed his own kind of escapism. Francis turned reclusive, he didn’t doubt that Gilbert was busy rolling one thing or another on the other side of the bedroom window… Antonio couldn’t stay there in that place with the toxicity it possessed and the danger it was posing to his sanity.

If no one wanted to see him or talk to him, then fine. Let them have their way, he decided, but not at the cost of his own health.

So he pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts list, wondering who would be safe to call, who would be safe to talk to and visit at this time of night, who would be safe to possibly stay with overnight should he find himself only deeper in his despair.

Alfred, Afonso, Arthur, Elizabeta, Emma, Feliciano, Francis, Gilbert, Ivan, Lars, Lovino, Matthew, Maximo—

Antonio softly bit his lip. He tapped a name, only half-sure he would get a response, and waited for the ringing to be replaced with a human voice.

“Pronto,” it said eventually, a wave of relief washing over him, “what do you want, bastard?”

He went to reply but his tongue got stuck and his words were lost in his throat. What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t just openly say what his problem was straight away without being judged in any way, so… What should he do?

“I— I was wondering if you’re free to talk,” he began warily.

“I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?” Lovino’s blunt tone sliced back into his ear.

“I mean in person,” Antonio amended. “I need someone to talk to, and I need to get out of the flat—”

“No.”

The Spaniard paused, baffled. “What?”

“I said no, Antonio,” the Italian repeated, however, just as sternly as before. “I am not being dragged into whatever is going on in your little trio, so I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to look elsewhere.”

His chest was growing tighter, the words getting stuck in his throat became more numerous and sharp. “Lovi, I—”

“Not tonight. Sorry.”

The line went dead, and Antonio had to take a moment to work out what on earth had just happened and why, once more, he was being rejected by someone he thought he could rely on. Someone he could respect. Someone he could trust. He tried again, calling his brother this time, but he only got a similar response.

“Whatever the issue is, you need to sort it out between yourselves, irmão,” Afonso’s voice told him. “You can’t keep running to other people and expect them to hold your hand.”

“So much for brotherly love, Fonso,” Antonio muttered all the while. He was growing tired of this attitude his brother had, purely because he was the older one and therefore—quite clearly—wiser. “Tell you what, I’ll remind you of that the next time you and Lars have an argument, yeah?”

“Toni, no, you don’t—”

“I understand perfectly,” the Spaniard pressed on, regardless. “We are adults. We have our own feet. Who cares if we fall over, right? Thanks, hermano.”

And this time, it was Antonio who ended the call abruptly. His brother Afonso had subsequently tried to call back but he was having none of it, and waited a few minutes before trying to call someone else. Emma had suggested that Antonio try to talk to Francis and Gilbert but wasn’t sure what to advise when informed that they weren’t currently talking at all. Maximo, his cousin, had alternatively suggested that Antonio make them see what they were shutting out:

“Make them remember why you’re there—why they let you into their lives, primo.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that, huh?” Antonio questioned, already at a loss with this one.

“I dunno, I dunno why they picked you in the first place.”

“Gracias, Max,” the older of the two sighed, “but I think that’s as good as this is going to get. Chao.”

He was running out of options, it was nearing eight o’clock, and not many more people were answering his calls. Before long, in fact, there was only one person on his contact list that he hadn’t yet called, but he was sure there was a reason his conscious had stopped him thus far. Ivan was out with his sisters. Alfred was having a night in with his own brother. Elizabeta was having date-night with Roderich. And Arthur was…

Somehow, the phone ended up next to Antonio’s ear, the Brit’s number dialled into the keypad, and he felt his heart pulsing with each tone. He was mad, he told himself, to be doing this, especially after hearing the small argument that erupted between Arthur and Francis, but he had run out of options and Arthur… Wasn’t always the worst kind of company.

“What the bloody hell do you want?”

Antonio winced at the agitation in his voice. Part of him said it was in the blonde’s nature, another part reasoned that he was probably still letting off steam after talking to Francis. Either way, he didn’t sound too impressed to see that Antonio, of all people, was calling him at such a time of day. Well done, Toni. Nailed it.

“I was just wondering if you’re free to talk,” he replied cautiously, slowly. “And in person, preferably.”

“Need to escape, huh?”

Antonio blinked. “How can you—?”

“I know who you live with, it’s hardly surprising if you need to get away,” Arthur said with a proud nonchalance. “I’m not doing anything in particular and frankly, I need a break from life, too.”

“So…?”

“Do you want to come over or not?”

“If you’re inviting me, then yeah,” the brunette said, nodding invisibly at the Brit. “I’m not sure being here will do me much good for much longer.”

“Then get your ass over here. You remember where I live?”

“I remember.”

How could he possibly forget?


	2. You and I, Again and Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio does a thing.
> 
> Whether or not it's a good thing is a whole other issue.

Antonio knocked on the blue-painted door, the brassy number twelve shimmering under the light of the streetlamps, and he waited in silence for someone—clearly Arthur—to answer. It was a cold night out and almost nine o’clock, the crisp autumnal winds gently tickling at the bare skin on his cheeks and hands. Come on, he silently beckoned, hurry up!

The door opened and warmth flooded out in a wave of heat and light, and Antonio greeted Arthur with a feeble, sheepish smile. The Brit looked him up and down, seemingly taking in the sight before him (make the most of it Arthur, it won’t be happening that often, the brunette vowed) before inviting him indoors.

“Come on, we don’t need you freezing to death on my doorstep,” he said, standing aside as the Spaniard entered into the luxury warmth and comfort of his two-storey home (it paid to have rich parents). The door was closed. “Not exactly the best idea, eh?”

“Yeah,” Antonio responded with a quiet chuckle, much unlike the ones he used to give. Used to give? Usually gave? He didn’t know anymore. “That was not my intention tonight.”

“No? What intentions did you have, in that case?” Arthur questioned, quickly adding: “We’ll go to the kitchen. Have a cuppa.”

Following closely behind as the Brit led on, Antonio warmed his hands up with friction. “Freedom. From my flat, from the people _in_ the flat…” he explained slowly as they arrived at their destination. “I just need to get away…”

“I know the feeling.”

“You live _alone_.”

“And sometimes, loneliness is as dreadful as company,” Arthur told him.

There was a mutually agreed silence as Arthur took to boiling the kettle and setting up two cups and teabags at the breakfast bar. The kitchen was a space that Antonio knew better than he had thought he would after such a long time having passed since he was last in it, but even so, he could remember where certain things belonged, he remembered how Arthur liked to organise the utensils, he remembered trying to teach him how to cook the simplest of things…

That was before the arrangement with Francis and Gilbert. And it was, in some ways, a simpler time for all of them.

“What’s up, then? What have they done?”

Antonio came out of his stupor, his brain working hard to process what had just been said, and a small frown emerged on his face as he contemplated it. “I’m not sure they’ve done anything, to be honest,” he said slowly. “It could be what I have done, what I have not done… I may have no hand in this whatsoever.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“They wouldn’t speak to me,” Antonio confirmed. “I tried to ask and they just pushed me away.” He gave a dry laugh. “They left me at the dinner table, abandoned once more. Sound familiar?”

“Indeed it does,” Arthur mused distantly.

The kettle came to the boil and he attentively began to pour the boiling water into the two glass cups. Antonio watched the flow, the rise of hot steam, the teabags swirling and dancing in the liquid. It was like he was entranced. He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Even as the kettle was replaced, his focus remained on the infusions spilling from the leaves and into the water. Change was easy, he noted in that moment. It didn’t take much. And sometimes, change was good.

“Anyway, so,” the blonde proceeded as the drinks brewed, “escapism from the suffocating, toxic atmosphere of a silent flat?”

“Precisely.” Antonio gave a sigh. “More and more, I worry these days that we’re slowly falling apart. I don’t know what to do, I can’t seem to keep us all together and happy anymore,” he elaborated. “And sometimes… It feels like I’m the only one who can be bothered to try.”

“Sounds like you all need a serious break from each other,” Arthur diagnosed plainly.

Was that really the answer? Was it really that easy? Antonio was scared that a break would start off as exactly that, but then slowly extend in silence until the break had transformed into a break-up without anyone truly realising it. He didn’t want that—at least, that was what his heart was telling him at that moment in time.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“Are you happy?” was the short response.

“Well, I—”

“It’s a ‘yes-no’ question, Antonio,” Arthur told him. “You need to be honest with yourself, here.”

In that moment, the voices seemed to creep up on Antonio once more. Arthur was looking at his intently from across the bar, over the oceans of tea that seemed to separate them, and every noise in the area was replaced by only the pounding beat of his heart. He felt small. He felt weak. He felt useless.

_You’re all of those things._

_Look at you, crawling back here like a child._

_Arthur’s right—you need a break._

_Arthur seems to know what’s best._

_He knows what’s best for you._

_Why did you ever let that go?_

_He knows you._

_He knows you very, very well._

_Are you going to let that get away a second time?_

It was too much for him to handle all of a sudden. The reminder of people walking away from him, the reminder that he was worth no more than the limescale in the kettle water, the reminder that he was cracking from every angle… Antonio couldn’t hold it back. The crack widened and all that seeped out was the sea.

“Antonio…?”

He tried to control it. He tried to fight back, rubbing at his eyes, biting back the sobs, locking the coughs in his throat, forcing the tears back up his cheeks—but it was in vain. There was no stopping this now, and as he felt pitying arms suddenly trying to comfort him, all of the defences broke down with their owner. Antonio was a mess, and now it was visible.

“Let it out,” Arthur instructed him quietly, trying to console the Spaniard and stick him back together again. “Just let it out, and we’ll go from there.”

Between hoarse sobs and moments when his voice had been stolen by the demons possessing him to act in such a way, Antonio barely managed to squeeze out an: “I’m sorry,” that sounded coherent and sincere. He just wanted to curl into a ball and vanish from this life.

Arthur, in the meantime, had taken to rubbing gentle circles into his back as he held onto the seated Spaniard, comforting him in almost a maternal manner. It took a few minutes, some calm and caring words and some patience, but eventually, it seemed to be working. Antonio had overcome the first hurdle and had let his emotions out so that they would not suffocate him—good.

He found himself holding onto Arthur, too, face pressed against his torso to hide from the world, his tears tainting his t-shirt, but there was something about the situation that made him feel safe and secure in spite of its nature. Sure, Antonio had been balling his eyes out but the way Arthur had treated him—respected him—was appreciated beyond words.

“I think I’m part of the reason Francis is upset,” Arthur mumbled as the sobs stopped and they just remained there, united, embracing each other, his head resting on top of Antonio’s. “Not the entire reason, mind you—but a significant one.”

Antonio had almost forgotten about the argument he had overheard. It was a bad idea to mention he had overheard anything, he decided, however, so he played the innocent for the time being.

“What do you mean?” he breathed out.

“We had a fight,” Arthur supplied with a heavy heart. “Don’t get me wrong in this—I care about the bugger, but he can be overbearing and doting at times.”

He pulled away so that they could see each other; Antonio gained the sense that this was important, that he needed to listen—for Francis’ sake if not his own.

 _Why do you_ _still care about him? He doesn’t care about you._

“I recently reconnected with one of my blood brothers, you see,” the blonde said over the imposing whispers. He sat down on the other stool and continued to explain: “He wants to rebuild what we lost all that time ago, and I took him up on the offer. When I told Francis… He didn’t seem to like the idea, at first.”

This confused Antonio greatly. “Why not?” he questioned with a tired frown. “I thought he would’ve supported you.”

“So did I, but not everyone can be right each time,” Arthur responded. “He got angry, said that I was trying to leave the family, that I was being ungrateful and selfish. I told him to do one. If he didn’t want me to make amends with my real family, then I don’t know how he could expect me to continue living under his name.”

“And… This brother of yours,” Antonio asked, “have you seen each other yet?”

At this, Arthur nodded. “I met with him the other day. Dylan,” he said. “I’m due to be meeting the rest of the family next week.”

The pair spoke for a little bit longer on the topic to get some fresh air into the room. Antonio had said he thought it was sweet that they were reuniting and finding harmony after so long apart. Arthur had simply commented that it was rather overdue, but that he wasn’t going to complain. The Bonnefois had treated him well, but it was time to leave the nest.

“They’re my real family, at the end of the day,” he concluded, “and if Francis can’t appreciate that then I’m not sure what kind of relationship we have.”

“But you still care about him…?”

“Of course. He can be an ass at times, sure, but he’s also gotten me through a lot and been my constant,” Arthur nodded, seemingly reminiscing on such vital times. “I love him regardless of being blood or not. The idiot is just too thick to notice it.”

The sentiment of it was incredible, sweet and just. It was what a familial relationship should be—complete trust and compassion between all members and love of an unconditional kind. Heck, even a romantic relationship should have been built on such foundations, but it left Antonio wondering… Arthur felt all these things, but not once had the brunette hear them exchange those words. Never had Francis said how much he _loved_ Arthur and treasured him as a brother. And to Antonio, this seemed like a massive fault.

“Okay but… And don’t take this the wrong way,” Antonio warned as he began to pry, “but have you ever told him how much you care about him?”

Arthur seemed to be taken aback by the question. “What do you mean? Surely he knows, I—”

“But that’s just it,” the brunette said. “I don’t think he _does_.”

“Preposterous!”

“Arthur, look,” Antonio proceeded with a little huff, his voice properly returning to him following his episode; “both of you can be stubborn, proud and stupid. But above all, I think that… That a lack of communication is at fault here.”

“I don’t follow…”

“Francis probably feels that you’re trying to abandon him for a different family!”

“But I’m not!”

“But he doesn’t _know_ that,” Antonio stated. “Can’t you see? You need to tell him how much you care else you’ll lose everything that the both of you have.”

“And what about you, eh?”

“What _about_ me?”

“Do you need to go and tell Francis how much you care about him, too, if you want to save your relationship?”

It was more complicated than that. Antonio knew it and he didn’t doubt that Arthur knew it. But it was no good trying to invade Francis’ space and march across the battlefield only to step on a mine. Arthur and Francis needed to talk more desperately than Antonio and Francis did, and no matter what more the Brit would suggest, the Spaniard decided that he would not let his own needs get in the way of what he felt was more important.

_Why are you even still bothering with Francis?_

_If he doesn’t care about you, why should you even try to help?_

_Francis won’t love you for this._

_Let the bastard wither and rot!_

“Hey, are you okay?”

He felt the hand on his shoulder, soft yet firm. His emotions were getting the better of him again, the voices were growing noisier and thirsty, and Antonio couldn’t control any of it. Two sets of green eyes locked onto each other, either wide with concern or with fear and panic, and a pulse began to race. Breathing grew hard again. Concentration seemed impossible. His head became lighter.

“Antonio?” Arthur’s voice called from somewhere close yet so far away. “Antonio, is everything okay?”

His voice had gone, as had all of his words. He felt sick, he felt ill, he felt nauseous, he felt anxious, he felt weird, he felt like he would collapse and fall from his stool at any second. They were taking over him. Tormenting him. When all he could do was shake his head in response, the rest of him shaking too, Arthur was left with little choice but to help his guest move somewhere comfortable and safe. Sure, it took a few minutes, but once he had been able to get Antonio up the stairs and to the spare bedroom, the brunette was able to relax more comfortably and overcome whatever was terrorising his system.

Antonio lay on side his on the bed, Arthur attentively at his side. His head screamed that this was wrong, that this was not supposed to be happening, but his heart was too busy trying to break free from his ribcage that his brain was subsequently ignored. A hand was pressed to his forehead, presumably to check his temperature, and was soon replaced by the gentle stroke of another hand down his arm.

“Just take it easy,” Arthur said softly. “Get some rest, and we can talk more in the morning.”

The British hand was now resting on top of the Spanish one. Neither owner made a move to retrieve their asset. Still, that small, sane part of Antonio’s mind begged him to listen and to leave before something bad happened, but his heart refused to let him deny the new feelings rising within him.

After a few silent moments, Arthur spoke again: “I’ll leave you to it,” he began, but he was prevented from finishing his sentence when Antonio grabbed his hand and looked at him with a pathetic and helpless look that, without needing words, said: “stay with me.”

And it didn’t seem like Arthur was going to deny his guest.

Antonio knew he should have felt guilty in that moment, but he didn’t. Even as the lights were turned out and both of them were left only in the minimal garments the night called for, the only thing that lingered inside of him was a longing for warmth that it didn’t seem he would find anywhere else in the world other than right there, in Arthur’s arms, listening to the loving, whispered words and a gentle heartbeat.

Not once did he wonder what Francis and Gilbert were doing. Let them do it, he said, let them have their peace.

He had found his own peace elsewhere, now, in the presence of an old friend and interest, and he would be damned if he were to deny himself what he felt he was owed because of his conscience. Francis and Gilbert had not cared enough to confide in him. Why should he care that he was lying with another, no sex, no love-making—only the cuddles and chaste kisses and the sweet nothings shared—only fixing himself?

Antonio was allowed to be selfish now. He was allowed to do this, he reasoned, in order to wipe away the mistakes he had made in the past. He would let himself unravel in the hands of another man and he would gladly bend to their will so long as he was guaranteed happiness and bliss, if only for the night.

As the chaste kisses moved from cheek to lips to bare skin, he recalled the past he shared with Arthur. It was short but wonderful, the prologue to his current three-way relationship. They had loved and argued, bitten, scratched and kicked—but that was what they had shared, and it had let them thrive together. Broken dishes, swearing, slammed doors… That had brought their love to life.

But why had it ended? They had been working well in spite of what everyone else thought, happy and bright, an unbeatable spark. Well, it was that way until Antonio had begun to grow much closer to Francis than either of them had expected, and Arthur had become unwilling to share. So, he walked away. He took a big step back and left Antonio in a mess, with Francis at his side to pick up the pieces. Gilbert had arrived a couple of months later to remove the bandages.

So what would have happened if his friendship with Francis had never developed, he contemplated as teeth brushed against his neck, taunting and teasing him from above. What would have happened if he and the man now positioned above him had never gone their separate ways, he wondered as hands grew adventurous and lecherous. Would he have been happier had he never let the man whose scent surrounded him and whose fingers he was crumbling under get away?

For a long while, as the night went on, he could not doubt it.

Perhaps this had been a long time coming for the trio, the eruption of all of their unspoken issues—because the Lord knew Antonio had them too—that had thrown deadly ash into the air above them and sent magma burning at their feet. Perhaps this was simply meant to be. Perhaps this was right, perhaps it was okay.

Whatever the answer may have been, one thing was for sure: Antonio felt no regret about what was happening, and for the next hour and a bit, he enjoyed their activities without once thinking of the duo he had left behind. Right now, he told himself through a quiet, loving moan, he didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antonio is a hypocrite and a mess in this chapter, and I'm not sure which is worse...
> 
> Oh, and, I should probably point out something real' quick:  
> This story somehow sprouted from 'Colors' by Halsey - a beautiful song that in my head just really seemed to work with the BTT and a romantic rather than platonic relationship. And then 'Control' got thrown into the mix, but you'll see that more in the next two chapters. Spoilers!
> 
> Still, what was originally meant to be one-shot turned into this mess. It'll be a quicker update than my other ongoing story, I reckon, but it'll be must shorter too. Hopefully it just doesn't come across as either too rushed or dragged out, hnnngg-
> 
> Until next time, tutti :'3


	3. I: Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio wakes up and freaks out: volume one.
> 
> Also, Arthur is a bit of a manipulative dick still.

The bitter taste of regret lingered on his tongue as the brunette stirred under the sheets. Arthur was still with him, close by and as warm as ever, but the comfort he would have felt the night before was replaced by dread and fear.

Antonio was emotionally sober now. He had slept away all of the anxiety, the worry, the hatred, the scorn. The problem he was only just realising, however, was that he had slept it away with Arthur in a completely shameful way, and he wasn’t sure how he was meant to bounce back. How would he break this to Francis and Gilbert? Oh, by the way, I slept with your adopted brother and one of you close friends. Perfect!

_Don’t feel guilt; they don’t deserve you._

_Save them the trouble and walk away with your pride._

_Let them burn in Hell for denying you!_

His fingers locked tightly around the duvet cover. Next to him, he felt movement and a slight bounce in the mattress; he didn’t move so as to appear asleep, but it was soon clear that Arthur had gotten up out of the bed. With a panic, Antonio closed his eyes and feigned sleep when Arthur quietly asked if he was awake, and he only knew the coast was clear when the bedroom door opened and shut with a quiet creak.

What had he done? What the _fuck_ had he done?!

Nausea rose throughout his being and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth so that he didn’t throw up when he least expected it. God, how was he supposed to live with himself after this? So much for making amends! Last night, Antonio had been sourly intoxicated by so many conflicting emotions, he hadn’t known what he was doing—what he was thinking. And though he couldn’t remember the details of the night before and how far the pair had gone, it didn’t take a genius to work out the source of the aching over his body and in his heart.

Outside the room, Antonio could hear movement in hallway and, breaking the silence, the faint beeps of a number being dialled into the landline phone. Was this his chance to escape? Maybe he could quickly (and quietly) grab his clothes, throw them on and take his chances out of the window. Or maybe God would strike him down right then and there amidst all his sins and get the job over and done with.

Either way, he was out of luck.

“If you were that worried, you should’ve just called,” Arthur’s muffled voice said from outside. “There’s no use texting me when my phone’s on silent.” A long pause. “What do you mean?! I was fucking asleep, as if I wanted to interrupt that with constant pinging!”

Antonio wondered who he was on the phone to for a moment before realising he had more pressing matters at hand. He sat himself up shakily, his body still recovering from the previous night, and he swung his legs out of the bed so he could stand up and try to work out how he was going to get away from that house.

“Francis, just shut up and breathe, okay?!”

Oh no. Oh no no no! No, had Francis been looking for him, had he and Gilbert noticed his absence from the flat? Antonio looked fervently for the time and saw that, on the face of an alarm clock, it was almost ten o’clock in the morning. No wonder—Antonio had gained the habit of waking up first and prepping breakfast, Gilbert and Francis emerging from the bedroom up to half an hour later with tired eyes and adoration.

He had beyond screwed up.

Would Arthur give him up, throw him to the lions? Well, he had already done so himself, but surely it would be marginally better to confess his crimes himself rather than have another reveal all.

“No, I haven’t seen him, Francis,” was all that he heard, however. Sickness and relief washed over him at once. Arthur understood. “Have you tried the Vargas’, or his brother?” Another pause. “Call around. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

After that, Antonio had to assume that Arthur had ended the phone call. Footsteps came back towards the bedroom and the Spaniard scrambled back under the covers so that, when the door was opened once more, it appeared as though he was only just waking up and had definitely not been awake for the past half hour on account of his troubled mind. He rubbed at his eyes like a tired child as Arthur clambered back under the sheets and shock surged through him for the brief moment in which their legs brushed against each other.

It was safe to say his resolve had entirely fallen apart by that point, not that he was bad at hiding it from Arthur. Practice made perfect and all that, he mused.

“Morning,” the blonde greeted him. Tiredness had seemingly taken him once more upon entering the room; his voice was tender; his tone was silk.

“Mornin’,” Antonio mumbled back pathetically.

“Sleep well?”

“I guess.”

“Not too bad for a stranger’s bed, eh?”

“You’re not a stranger,” the brunette said with a soft frown.

“Ah,” Arthur replied, “I have to be if you plan on preserving your dignity.”

This only made Antonio groan in frustration, a childlike tantrum in the back of his mind, as he came to understand why Arthur had covered for him with Francis. _I haven’t seen him._ Clever man, but also very, very foolish.

Antonio had no intentions of lying to his partners.

“Even so…” he mumbled, toying with the duvet cover between his fingers as he tried to distract himself.

“The point is,” the other said, “Francis and Gilbert don’t know you were here. There’s no need for you to worry.” A stray hand wandered to a cheek. Green eyes dared a glance at a telling mark on Antonio’s neck. “They don’t have to know. You don’t have to tell them.”

“And what? Make a habit of coming here, or going to other beds just to get a pity fuck?”

“Is that what last night was to you?”

Antonio’s heart plummeted. “What…” Slow breath. “What else could it have been?”

“You tell me,” Arthur retorted, albeit rather calmly for the situation Antonio felt he had now landed himself in. “You called me, you came here, you gave me permission—”

“That doesn’t make it right! You took advantage of my situation!”

Fuck, now his head was swarming. A faint buzzing rolled in from the distance like bees stuck in his head. Angry bees. He rolled onto his back, unable to look at the Brit any longer than necessary, and then he sat up. He knew he needed to get out. Now was the perfect time, the perfect excuse on a silver plate in front of him.

But he was pulled back down by an overly defiant Arthur.

“Just— Pause for a moment,” he said, a kind of authority slipping into the subtext of his words, “and think. You say it wasn’t right because of your morals or whatever, but did it feel wrong?”

Antonio stared at a random spot on the ceiling. No, was his answer, though he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to admit it aloud. He had felt amazing, _it_ had felt amazing—all the ways in which Arthur had touched him, caressed him and loved him—and his body hadn’t put up any sort of resistance to the man’s advances. His morals had been defeated as soon as he had felt the other’s desire pushing and rubbing against him, and from there, Antonio had lived in ecstasy.

“You can’t deny that it was fun,” Arthur’s voice pressed on, edging closer to his ear and his very core. “You can’t tell me that you didn’t enjoy any of it…”

He was right, he was so fucking right, and it annoyed Antonio to no end! Even now he couldn’t stop his nerves from wreaking havoc inside of him, from making him feel smaller and squirm under the covers. If only he could have wished it away—wished himself away, so that he wasn’t around to destroy people like this.

Because now he knew he had also messed with Arthur as much as he had Francis and Gilbert. It seemed clearer than ever that the blonde still harboured feelings for him of a rather potent kind, and like a fool, Antonio had led him on. He had basically given himself up to whatever it was that Arthur had wanted to do and had in turn told him that what they were doing was okay. That it was good. That is was acceptable.

In that moment, he apologised to Arthur, but only in his head.

The hand moved, now, gently tickling at sensitive tanned skin as it trailed down the Spaniard’s side. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. Don’t do it, he told himself, don’t give in and give up. God, he had always loved physical contact like this. Arthur had a knack for it; he had learned all of the ‘hotspots’ whilst he and Antonio had first gotten together and had soon mastered the art of making the other an utter mess.

Gilbert was great at it to, Antonio reminded himself harshly as he tried to pull himself away from that pit. Gilbert always felt colder, his fingertips like ice, but they only served better in stimulating his partners that way. It was a godsend in summer. Hot days followed by cold nights spent huddled up to a living icepack—one that knew how to touch you in the right way and how to make you feel the best you could possibly be. Gilbert was an artist like that.

And Francis, too, had his own skills. That man’s hands could work a knot out of any muscle with no effort and yet a wonderfully strong force behind each motion. They knew how to care. They knew how to be gentle and soft for the intimate love-making moments and they knew how to be a little rougher when the times called for it. And the way his fingers would run through and coil around your hair as you loved each other up… Nothing had ever been so magical.

And yet, Antonio had thrown it all away. He had sacrificed the things that he had treasured because he couldn’t control his emotions or his own greedy sexual needs. Now he had tarnished four lives—his own included—and he needed to face the consequences.

Arthur’s hand pulled the brunette onto his side and his legs moved to entwine with their darker counterparts. Not a word was spoken as the two bodies moved closer together in a strange harmony, and even then, no word was spoken when they were pressed up against each other, only millimetres of air between them.

_What more harm would it do, to let him just have you, to let him put his hands all over you? You can’t make the situation any worse for yourself, Antonio, so why not make the most of this time you have together? Besides, they might not take you back. Arthur might be there for you when you fall if you make it clear to him that you’ll let him catch you. And don’t forget…_

The voices continued to urge him onwards as their lips met and danced and they found themselves tangled in each other once more. It wasn’t right. Antonio took a gentle, long breath. It wasn’t right. Green tea, old fading cologne. It wasn’t right. The taste of the morning sun. It wasn’t right.

_But it feels so good._

It wasn’t right.

_But it’s what you want._

It wasn’t right.

_But you need it._

It wasn’t right.

_But no one else will have you, you fucking whore!_

Antonio forced himself away from Arthur, pulse racing and breath getting trapped in his throat. He couldn’t do this. He shouldn’t be doing this, and even if this had ruined everything, staying in the bed would only force him into Hell with no chance of salvation. So he got up, not looking at a no doubt baffled Arthur as he tried to piece himself back together.

“What— Where are you going?” a demanding voice came from behind him as he left the bed and grabbed his t-shirt, crumpled and wrinkled. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

“I-I have to go,” Antonio stated, still not looking at him for fear of falling once more. “I need to go back, and— And explain to them properly everything that’s happened.”

“But I lied for you—”

“Then you dug your own grave,” he amended weakly, “because I never asked you to.”

“How can you know that they both still care—that they _will_ care?”

_They don’t care about you. Who would?_

Antonio appeared frozen on the spot, like a mannequin, as he slipped his phone into the pocket of his jeans, freshly equipped. It was a provoking question. Did they care? Francis had called around presumably looking for him, but who was to say it wasn’t out of anger and hatred rather than worry and concern? He wasn’t sure how to answer that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. “I have to go back… I have to talk to them, set things straight…”

_You were unfaithful._

“I don’t want to lose what we have.”

_You lay with another and liked it._

“They tear me apart sometimes, but they deserve the truth.”

_You’ll want to do it again, and again, and again._

“And after that is done,” he concluded, “I, in turn, deserve whatever consequence that they decide is most suitable.”

Arthur gave a quiet hum. “Do you think they’ll take you back?”

Antonio said a silent prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Run, Toni, Run!
> 
> Honestly, I do actually like England as a character, but he was just kinda essential as the driving force behind Antonio getting his shit together (ever so slightly), and so he remains an asshat. You're welcome!


	4. Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio makes it back to the flat, but that does not mean he is safe.

Walking up those stairs felt like the hardest thing he had ever done. For each step of the two-flight climb to their apartment, Antonio felt as though another cement block was being added to an already mile-high pile on his shoulders. For the entire journey, his conscience told him to turn back; the voices demanded that he return to the man that had patched him back up before he lost his rebound, but it was safe to say he’d looked like a nutter, walking the streets and cursing himself to the void.

From his jacket, Antonio retrieved the key to the flat and stopped himself outside the door. The paint was starting to flake off, but the golden number sat proudly in the centre. This was their home. They had viewed it, picked it, decorated it and filled it together over the last two years of their relationship; it was their child. How could he have been so foolish and abandon it like that?

The key slid into the lock and the mechanism gave a soft click as he let himself in. Inside, all of the lights were off. Antonio took a few steps in, removing his jacket as he went, but was both alarmed and confused in the end to find that no one seemed to be home.

“Gilbert?” he called out. “Francis?”

But no response came, and the darkness swelled around him even as he turned on the lights to the entire living space. He walked towards the sofas, seemingly untouched, and he proceeded towards the kitchen where the milk jug sat out on the side rather than in its shelf in the fridge. Antonio was quick to amend it before anything spoiled. The milk was still fairly cold. The flat had not been empty for long.

Antonio placed his phone down on the kitchen side. Numerous messages had apparently popped up overnight—some from Francis, some from Gilbert—but he had read none of them for fear of what they likely contained: rejection, damnation and hate. He couldn’t bring himself to hear it from them through typed words. Anything like that… It needed to be said face to face else he would swear it all a nightmare.

The landline phone began to ring.

He didn’t know what to do. He stared at it on its pedestal near the front door, but he made no move towards it. What if it was Francis or Gilbert ready to bite his head off? Or worse, what if it was Arthur, trying to drag him back into his arms.

_It’s where you belong._

“Fuck off,” he muttered bitterly, and then the machine went to voicemail and the horrors only became more real for the lamenting Spaniard.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” his brother's voice declared. Antonio paled. “I warned him—I told him to sort out the problem, not run from it! I’m sorry he’s done this. He doesn’t think. He’s honestly useless, and Toni’s never going to hear the end of it when I get my hands on him. If you find him, let me know. I’ll be over there faster than he can say the Lord’s Prayer.”

Another beep signified the end of the call.

He was shaking again.

_Your brother thinks you’re useless, too, see?_

No, no, Afonso cared about Antonio in his own unique way and wasn’t really going to cast him out for this. Afonso knew Antonio was flawed, yes, but they were of blood! Afonso would not block Antonio out. Afonso would not do that to Antonio. Afonso loved Antonio.

_Does he?_

“Doesn’t he?” he asked himself quietly.

Antonio looked at his hands, trembling and locked in that state, and his chest grew tight and his lungs seemed to fill with a viscous ink all black and sticky. It rose in his throat, it seeped through the tissue and into his bloodstream. Soon, it was all over him, and he ran to the bathroom with what strength he had left, locked the door, and threw up into the toilet.

Black stained the white walls. It didn’t all want to come out—it didn’t want to leave him—but Antonio was going to make it. His fingers were quickly in his mouth trying to reach for the gooey parasite inside of him, but even as he wretched, nothing more came up. He tried and tried and tried, yet all that had left him was that primary puddle, dark and devilish.

He looked at it now, in the toilet bowl, and he watched as it festered and tried to fight its way out. For a moment, it felt like maybe he had the upper hand, staring down at part (at least) of what was destroying him, but the feeling quickly died.

The black ink stopped moving. And then, all at once, it expanded and throbbed, spilling out over the sides and leaking onto the tiled floor. Antonio scrambled away, a cat stuck on a sinking sea boat, but his only exit was quickly blocked as a tsunami wave of black threw itself against the door and formed a solid wall. Make it stop, he begged, make it go away! But it wouldn’t, and he found himself being herded backwards towards the bath.

Absolutely petrified, he clambered into the tub. The goo was a raging sea, still rising out of the toilet, rising closer to him with each strangled breath. He knew nothing but fear, now. He knew he was already dead and he began to ask for forgiveness: from Francis, from Gilbert, from Arthur, from God… The list went on, from being sorry for being a selfish bastard to being sorry for turning up to class late when he was a teen. So many things he hadn’t said sorry for. So many things that stained his name as black as the ocean before him.

It spilled into the bath. It wrapped itself around his ankles, but it taunted him, refusing to move any higher. It made him its prisoner. It pointed its dripping fingers at him and laughed, and all Antonio could do was sink downwards and form a ball, desperately asking for it to just take him and spare everyone else he cared about.

Take me, he begged it as it slowly crawled up his skin and enveloped him, take me and let them be free of me. Antonio curled in on himself, hands on his head and face buried into his arms and knees. He didn’t want this to be his life any longer. He didn’t want life at all; if he was doomed to this existence, then he knew it would kill him one way or another… And then, like a fresh spring breeze, he felt his breath leave him as the darkness pulled him down below the waves.

* * *

“Dammit,” one hissed under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” the other asked the first.

“No one seems to know where he is, Gil,” Francis sighed, letting his phone fall from his hand into his lap as the car rolled on through the streets.

So far, the Frenchman had called everyone he could recall Antonio having spoken to or met up with over the last two weeks, but no one had any intel on his whereabouts. It was driving him mad, and much quicker than Gilbert was currently driving them both. They had been on the road for only ten minutes, yet it seemed to have taken hours.

“Worrying too much won’t help,” the albino assured him. He probably would’ve spared Francis a glance had he not been such a proper and practiced driver. “Toni can look after himself; he probably just needed fresh air and got lost.”

“Or got himself hurt—maybe I should call the hospital,” the blonde fretted, but he was halted by a hand placing itself on his lap. “You don’t think I should?” he questioned, baffled.

“No,” Gilbert confirmed, “because he won’t be there.”

“But how can you know for sure?”

“Trust me,” was his answer. “I know.”

Silence fell between the duo once more as their drive around the city continued. Between the two of them, they had managed to mostly sort themselves out the night before. It had taken about an hour for Francis to emerge from the bedroom, at which point, he had discovered Gilbert making himself a hot drink in the kitchen. Gilbert had eventually found his voice and offered Francis a drink, too, and so had subsequently made two coffees and sat down with one of two partners at the dining room table.

The three bowls from dinner had remained there, untouched.

“Cooled off a bit?” Francis had asked him.

“Who are you asking,” Gilbert had responded, eyebrow raised daringly; “me or you?”

From there, it had taken a short millennia for them both to get through all of the problems that had piled up on top of them: Gilbert may be facing redundancy at work after the company lost a massive trade deal; Francis was trying to hold his family—Arthur included—together; Gilbert’s brother was trying to deal with his own relationship issues by using the elder as a crutch; Francis was becoming increasingly stressed with each day spent working at the restaurant; Gilbert’s sleeping pills were becoming less effective; Francis struggled to feel happy these days; Gilbert had recently acquired some more weed and had wasted no time in giving into his old demons; Francis—

“Do you think Antonio should be here, too?” the blonde had then suggested, eyes suddenly looking to the rest of the apartment to see that their brunette was nowhere to be seen.

Gilbert had hummed in accordance. “Yeah, I guess. Wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted to add to our shared mountain of troubles. Might do him some good as well.”

“That’s what I thought,” Francis had slowly nodded. “Do you know where he is?”

“Bathroom, perhaps?”

But after knocking on the bathroom door and opening it after a short wait, it became clear that Antonio was not there. Nor was he in any of the bedrooms nor the cupboard (though the Spaniard had made it explicit that he hated that dark spider-hovel with every bone in his body, so he wouldn’t have been in there anyway). So, where was he?

Francis had almost immediately started to worry and speculate like an overly protective mother, and Gilbert had had to try and keep him calm whilst entertaining the possibilities his own mind was drawing for him. He had gone for walk, the albino had suggested, and would likely return soon. There was nothing to worry about.

But when the clock struck midnight and there was still no sign of Antonio, the rest of the night had been virtually restless as Francis and Gilbert had begun to map out where on Earth the final member of their trio had fled to.

They had gone out themselves that early morning and walked through all of the parks and green spaces they could think of, torches in hand, to see if perhaps Antonio had ended up on a bench somewhere, victim to the cold and loneliness of the night. They had checked a handful of bars they liked to go to and the alleyways behind the bars, in case their worst fears had been realised. But even still, by the time the sun was beginning to rise, they had not seen nor heard anything that had instilled them with hope.

After returning to the flat, Francis had immediately gone to the phone and had started to call around. To Afonso, to Lovino, to Arthur, to Ivan, to Lars—anyone and everyone who he knew Antonio spoke to regularly enough and considered a friend. And not a single person had been able to help; it was not their fault, of course, but Francis had grown more bitter and disdainful as the ‘no’s kept on coming.

Gilbert had—no doubt out of concern for the blonde, too—then suggested they take a drive and look out for Antonio that way, as it would be easier to spot him in broad daylight. It had been such a motivating idea that they had left in a hurry, Gilbert having to abandon the milk on the kitchen side as he took a travel mug of coffee with him, and both of them forgetting to properly lock the front door.

And now, there they were, some twenty minutes later, still lacking any ounce of hope that they would find their lost friend and companion. Both of them asked themselves what they had done wrong. Had they chased Antonio away? Had he left them for good? Had they angered him or upset him in such a way that the Spaniard had felt he’d no other choice but to flee? Such thoughts tormented them both, pulling and tugging at their already frail heartstrings.

It was only after another half hour, when most ground had been covered, that Gilbert said: “We should go back. You need to eat. Rest,” he insisted, ignoring the feeble protests that came from the blonde at his side. “If we can’t find him by this evening, we’ll report him…” He could barely bring himself to say it. “We’ll report him missing to the police.”

God, that was such a hard thing to think of as a possible outcome of the day. To lose someone like that and be so unsure of where they could be despite your best efforts… It was heart-breaking for the both of them, and yet, they knew there was no other choice. Antonio needed their help in returning to them safely and soundly, and they knew that if it came to it, they would give up everything they had just to know he was okay.

Five minutes later, they were back at the flat and walking up to the door. Gilbert was a little surprised (yet too tired to properly register) that the door was not locked, and he entered the flat with Francis close behind. But, as they both slowed their pace and they stepped into their designated living room area, they both knew something was not quite right.

“Did you leave the lights on?” Francis asked.

Gilbert shook his head. “No, I…  I’m sure I turned them off.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then something is not right,” the blonde mumbled warily. “Something is very, _very_ wrong...”

Gilbert turned and looked to him with a look just as concerned, but he told Francis to stay by the front door as he did a quick check of the rooms. No one was in the kitchen—that was quite obvious—and after grabbing a knife and taking a couple of minutes to carefully check the bedrooms, he had just as much luck. There was no one. He glanced back to Francis who appeared to be just as confused, before pointing to the two doors he hadn’t gone through—the cupboard and the bathroom.

Tightening his grip on the handle of the knife, Gilbert bided his time in passing the kitchen and checking the cupboard in the back corner of the apartment. As he did so, he observed that, bizarrely enough, the milk had been put away. What thief put milk back into the fridge? He supposed he would find out. The cupboard was empty of life (if you didn’t count the little spider clan that lived in the top-right corner, of course) and so that left only one possible room.

His heartbeat grew more rapid and more profound, like his heart was ready to leap out of his chest, and he took the silver handle in his grip. If there was someone behind this door, all Hell would break loose. Neither of them doubted it.

Francis watched with just as much anxiety building up within him, clotting in his arteries. If something bad happened, he wasn’t sure how he would cope. What if it ended up being that he had lost both Gilbert and Antonio in the space of twenty-four hours? He wasn’t so sure he would be able to survive such a revelation, and the idea only became more prominent as Gilbert slowly and cautiously opened the door to the bathroom.

He watched as the albino peered through the crack. He watched as the door was opened a little more. And then a little more. He watched painfully as Gilbert took a step into the room and vanished from sight. And then, his heart crashed to the ground when all he could hear was Gilbert crying out in something—pain, fear, panic—who knew—in German, and Francis raced to see what had happened, if he was okay, if someone was in their flat and had just stolen the second love from his life.

But he did not find Gilbert on the floor, bleeding or in pain, nor did he see some masked figure wielding a weapon and threatening anyone.

What he saw, instead, was Gilbert frantically leaping for the bathtub and saying words that Francis could not comprehend (for a reason that was, in itself, just as incomprehensible) before the picture received colour.

“—ni! Get up, for fuck’s sake, open your eyes!”

_What’s happening?_

Francis approached wearily. Gilbert was talking to someone, that was clear; he was beckoning them to wake up, to get up, to answer him, and Francis supposed it was someone close to him for him to be in such a violently terrified state.

It was only when he got close enough to see a familiar head of messy chocolate locks and a wonderfully tanned complexion that it clicked in his mind who was lying unconscious in their bathtub.

“Antonio…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneaky focaliser change was sneaky, but it won't happen often, I promise; Antonio's mind is too interesting to venture into - you can imagine I had a lot of fun with the bathroom scene.
> 
> What do we all think of Fran and Gil, then, eh? Bit slow, a bit useless? Let me know, and let me know what you think will be happening for this trio after this mayhem!
> 
> (P.S. You'll be kept waiting for the answer, by the by - we're travelling back in time shortly and that in itself will take a few chapters, hehe~)


	5. All Our Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is definitely wrong, and they all know it. But knowing what it is specifically? That may be much harder to work out...

He didn’t feel all that comfortable, but that wasn’t the issue at the forefront of Antonio’s mind when he moved under whatever fluffy thingy was currently covering him from shoulder to toe. He had a sore head above all else and a stiff neck that not even the pillows under his head seemed soft enough to sort out.

Wait.

Pillows? A blanket? Antonio could not recall getting into bed or tucking himself to sleep on the sofa. No, no, no—the last thing he could recall was being… Walking into his apartment and— No, no, no, where was he?! Why couldn’t he remember?!

Antonio shot upright with a bit too much speed and he momentarily made his head throb with an unprecedented violence. He rubbed his temple with one hand and propped himself up with another; in the background he heard movement of a kind but paid it no mind until a hand tried to pull him back onto the sofa to lie down. He fought away the hand with bad memories, smacking it fiercely.

From somewhere, a door shut and latch sounded—the front door. Had someone just come in, or had they left? Who? Why? It took a moment for Antonio to register that he was looking directly at Francis’ worry-filled eyes and he felt his stomach churn and contort itself, fingers locking tightly around the blanket in his grasp.

Neither of them seemed capable of speaking. They just looked at each other. They tried to read each other yet the text was in a language they didn’t understand, and soon enough, Antonio grew bored of trying and retreated back under the comfort of fluff, rolling onto his side so he could tuck his face into the back cushion of the sofa.

“Antonio?”

He didn’t move a muscle. He only closed his eyes nice and tight and concentrated on his breathing. It was too soon, he told himself. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—he still wasn’t ready to let the curtain drop.

“Toni, please…”

“Is he awake?”

“Awake and pretending we don’t exist.”

Antonio could tell that Gilbert was not too impressed by such a revelation, but the German said nothing more on the matter for the time being. Perhaps if he prayed hard enough, they would go away—Francis, Gilbert, and all the little people living inside his head that told him to run, to hide, to jump, to fall, to cry, to—

A hand gently placed itself on his head. Fingers glided through his hair. They brushed stray locks away from Antonio’s face, destroying his small shield, and they continued to repeat their little race across his scalp. Words were muttered softly at the same time. His brain was too far away to make any sense of the French that was being spoken to him, but in that moment, it felt as though he was being given permission to relax.

“You gave us a terrible scare, you know,” Francis then said in English for the sake of everyone in the room. “We had to call the emergency services; they sent a quick-response paramedic.” He paused his speech but not his hand. “Why were you in the bath, Toni? Where did you go?”

“’m tired,” was all he got for a reply, muffled in the cushions.

Antonio was somewhat amazed he had even been able to say _that_ , but at the end of the day, he needed rest and a little more time to remember for himself exactly what had happened that morning for him to wake up in his current state. He could remember Arthur, he could remember making his escape. But after taking the first few steps into the flat, everything was a blank. It was as if his memory had died. He needed to resuscitate it desperately.

It seemed, however, that he was not going to be allowed this time to properly recover the lost files of his mind.

“We’re all tired,” Gilbert responded, his voice just a bit too blunt, a bit too loud. “We were awake for basically the entire night looking for you. I don’t think Francis slept for even a second.”

“But the important thing is that he’s back,” Francis added. His hand moved away and he got up off the sofa. “Sleep can be made up for. Replaced. Other things can’t.”

“You left us with no clue where you were.” Antonio was not out of the firing zone, it would have seemed. “You just walked out and, what, expected us to get on our knees and beg for you to come back?”

“Gilbert, just wait a moment—”

“You let us worry, to think of the worst things that could’ve happened to you!”

“Gil, please—”

“The thought that you were dead, lying in a ditch even crossed my mind at some point! I told Francis that it wasn’t possible, but hey, we eventually found you lying half-dead in the bathtub, so I guess I wasn’t far off at all!”

“Gilbert!”

There was a pause. Antonio had fallen back into a state of numbness at some point during that exchange, sensations of black, slimy tendrils wrapping around his limbs—his wrists, his ankles, his throat—sending him once more down a troubled path. His breathing hitched. He felt only fear and agony. His eyes were open but he could not see. He wished for the quick way out. God, just let him have the quick way out of this terrible, frightening existence.

* * *

“Have you been drinking?”

The words were accusatory. Francis looked at Gilbert and noticed for the first time that morning the redder eyes, not tired but sharp and aflame. He noticed the slight sway as Gilbert stood upright, as though he couldn’t quite balance himself, and the malice in the words he had spoken alone were an indicator that something was not right.

“Of course not. I went for a smoke is all,” Gilbert replied as if that was any better. Because Gilbert didn’t touch tobacco; his escape came in the form of a different plant, and one that he knew Francis was not exactly happy about. “I needed to stay awake too—and coffee wasn’t doing shit.”

“That doesn’t mean that smoking a joint is okay!”

“But you can turn to the wine when _you_ need a pick-me-up, eh?”

“At least I pick appropriate moments,” Francis retaliated. “Some tact would be appreciated—it’s not like that’s your boyfriend on the sofa, Gil! Yelling at him in your state is only going to make it worse!”

“Make _what_ worse? There’s nothing wrong with the guy,” Gilbert said flippantly.

They both turned their gaze to Antonio at that precise moment, however, and it became clear that perhaps _everything_ was in fact wrong with the guy. He was shaking, muttering things to himself, clawing at the skin on his wrists, struggling to hold back whatever had turned his entire being into the mess it had. Francis didn’t want to have to deal with Gilbert’s antics when Antonio was clearly in desperate need of both of them, and preferably in a clear-minded state.

Wary of startling him, Francis knelt down and put a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “Toni, can you hear me?” he asked, but all he could hear were quiet apologies and cries for help lying between the lines. “Come on, it’s okay. Take a deep breath.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely going to help him…”

“It’s more than _you’re_ doing.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes and leant over the sofa, and Francis observed with a small amount of caution as the German pressed a hand to Antonio’s forehead, fighting off the hands that tried to bat him away. It was somewhat of a surprise for Francis to witness the other pushing through his high in order to be of use, but he spoke no words for or against it; he would rather Gilbert be left to work in silence than spark an argument that may only worsen the situation.

The albino gave a hum. “Not a fever, but he’s hot.”

On any normal day, when things seemed normal and no one appeared to be at risk, Francis would’ve given a sly smirk and said: “And don’t we know it,” but it was not a normal day. He only nodded at Gilbert’s observation and questioned if perhaps they should try to cool him down with water, or an ice pack. Gilbert concurred.

As the other went to the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge-freezer for something cold, Francis returned his attention to the brunette whose condition was not changing—certainly not improving—and he tried to think of some way to calm him down. He wasn’t responding to questions, that much he had gathered so far. On a whim, he went back to gently running his fingers through Antonio’s hair and decided that, if spoken words did nothing, then perhaps a different kind of vocalisation might work instead.

There was no initial response to the French words that were quietly sung, a lullaby that Francis recalled from his youth, but he noted as Gilbert returned with a tea-towel and glass of ice in his hands that Antonio was not trembling as much as before. He himself took a moment to focus on his own breathing and bring it back to a natural pace (he hadn’t even noticed his own panic) and he gave the German a sheepish yet appreciative smile as he got to work prepping his makeshift ice pack.

Francis went back to his sweet maternal melody and Gilbert moved back around to the other side of the sofa, taking the cold package and pressing it assertively against Antonio’s forehead (or as close as he was allowed to get, that was). It was heart-wrenching, seeing him like this. He couldn’t quite comprehend why or how he had come into this state, but it was so painful to see, Francis probably would have let himself fall apart as well had his own togetherness not been so blatantly needed.

 _Oh, Toni,_ he said only to himself, _what on Earth have we done to you?_

Because he had no doubts that this had sprung from last night, just like his own anguish, along with the various other things that the foolish Spaniard had let pile up inside of himself. He had shut Antonio out because he had not wanted to bother him with issues he had not seen a point in burdening others with, but in the process, he had only burdened Antonio instead with a feeling that he was not wanted or needed. And Francis couldn’t imagine what that did to a person’s soul—especially someone whose soul was normally so bright and lively.

If only he had asked more often what was on Antonio’s mind. Were there signs he’d missed? Had it been obvious yet over-looked by both Francis _and_ Gilbert? Was it possible that Antonio had been trying to reach out to them for a very long time in order to seek help, but had been turned away because no one wanted to trouble him? Oh, there were so many ‘what if’s circling around in his mind, Francis was becoming dizzy.

* * *

What the fuck had he done?

Thinking had become only slightly harder for Gilbert in his current state, but the very idea that he had caused this to happen was enough to instil a sobriety in him that would last a century. It had taken a few minutes for Antonio’s form to become still and relaxed once more, Francis’ hand no doubt working magic as his own was an authoritarian gauntlet trying to force winter to bite the tanned skin. He felt horrible—in what he was feeling and what he had created.

They were distant now, but his own words had still somehow not left him. _You might just want to stay quiet for now, before you turn into the next problem on the list._ Could he have sounded like any bigger of an asshole? Gilbert had had every right to feel angry and frustrated that evening what with the threat of redundancy holding a knife to his neck, but there was no excuse to let it all out on Antonio.

He had only tried to help, he reminded himself as his guilty conscience grew heavier, he only asked us to say anything that was on our minds. If he and Francis had listened and taken him up on his offer, would they be where they were now? There was little doubt about it.

“I think he’s asleep,” Francis announced out of the blue. Gilbert studied the brunette closely and it was evidently the truth. “Should we move him? The sofa isn’t that comfy…”

“Yeah… Yeah, we should,” the German replied.

Letting the ice pack rest for a moment in its place, he moved around to the other side of the couch and allowed Francis to help him move Sleeping Beauty into his arms so that he could be easily whisked away to the bedroom. The ghost of a smile came onto his face. Sleeping Beauty was a nickname that only he ever used for Antonio, but it had always seemed so fitting.

It was present in the way that Antonio could clamber into bed and fall asleep within a matter of seconds if the conditions were right, and it was just as clear in how waking him up was an impossibility unless it was his own body clock that guided him out of bed early in the morning. Heck, it was even there in the occasional siestas that Gilbert would walk in on when he popped home on his lunch break, always silenced when he saw Antonio sound asleep on the sofa with something—a book, his phone, an empty plate—resting on his chest.

But this was now no longer the Sleeping Beauty that he knew. The man cradled in his arms was more of a sleeping catastrophe, and one of his own design, it would seem. Why had he been so harsh, so blunt? Gilbert wanted to rewind time and take his words back, but he knew that no amount of praying would allow him such a luxury.

“I’ll get the door,” Francis said, quickly opening the bedroom door for Gilbert so that all three of them could pass the threshold into the room they usually shared. “Maybe I’ll open the window, too. Let in a breeze to help him cool down.”

“Sounds good,” Gilbert replied distantly.

Did he smell a bit too strongly of what he smoked, he wondered, carefully placing the fragile thing in his arms down onto the safer comfort of the duvet covers. He had only taken his drastic turn back to smoking pot a week ago and had only had a handful of joints since then, but perhaps this alone was his cue to stop. After all, what if he accidentally had some adverse effect on Antonio as he tried to nurse him back to health?

It was like a sudden call—a reprimand against him, so fierce and lethal that Gilbert contemplated destroying his miniscule stash right then and there. Well, not right _there_ , because that would clearly cause yet more problems, but he wanted it gone. He wanted it gone and his own stability back.

Gilbert watched, teeth biting the inner corner of his lips, as Antonio’s body shifted and he rolled onto his side. Sound asleep, he mused. Perhaps he had needed it; with no clue as to where he was last night, who was to say that he hadn’t been walking around aimlessly all night, or sat, curled up in a doorway somewhere trying to keep warm in the nooks and crannies that Gilbert and Francis had missed.

He couldn’t imagine Antonio like that. Or at least, he loathed the image of it. He was too good a person, too kind a soul, too gentle a man—he didn’t deserve that kind of existence. He didn’t even deserve to have such things thought about him, in fact, so Gilbert quickly tried to refocus his attention elsewhere.

Francis stood by the window, claiming the freshest air he could as he peered out at the rest of the world. “What do you think would’ve happened if we hadn’t come home so early?” he asked.

“He would’ve woken up feeling very sore and achy,” Gilbert answered solemnly. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the pitiful pile in front of him on the bed. “He was only passed out. Paramedic said he hadn’t likely been there for long, remember?”

“Where do you suppose he went, then? What happened for him to… Just end up in the bathtub like that?”

“I don’t know, Fran. There’s no point guessing, you’ll only feel worse with the possibilities you’ll think of.”

_Like him sat on a street corner in the cold of the night, vulnerable, alone, freezing—and feeling fucking useless and unwanted by the people who are meant to care for him the most. Or maybe he was down an alleyway somewhere. Maybe he bumped into some people, maybe they did some bad things which is what wracked his body so much. He was terrified. He was on his own. And you left him like that._

They hadn’t meant to. They didn’t know it would happen—that he would leave.

_What if something bad happened to him?_

No, no, it wouldn’t have.

_He’s a spark—some people out there like to put sparks out._

He was fine; nothing happened to him. Nothing happened! He was—alone!

_What if someone touched him?_

No.

_What if someone had put their grimy hands all over him?_

No.

_He was vulnerable, he was upset, and they like that kind of thing._

No!

Antonio moved again as if on cue, a look of comfort and content on his face as he fell into the arms of a much deeper sleep. He was an angel, Gilbert concluded, and if anyone had dared to do such vulgar things, he would let his own demon out in a heartbeat. No one was allowed to get away with corrupting one of the few good things in his life. Not even himself.

No, nothing had happened. Antonio had returned to them as pure as he had left them. He was still broken and beat and weak and helpless—of course he was—but he was still theirs and he wanted to be able to restore him to his older self. Gilbert wanted to see the careless smiles, the happy glint in his eyes, to hear the honeyed laugh—

But then he noticed something. It was so slight, but it looked so out of place: a mark just peeking out from underneath the brunette’s t-shirt. Could it be, he wondered—dreaded. It couldn’t be. He got closer, moving downwards and across the bed to get as close as possible, begging God for anything else to have been there but _that mark._

God was having a couple days off, however.

“Francis…?”

“Mm…”

“Can you come and just— Look at this quickly…”

A few second later, Francis appeared just as mortified as Gilbert had been feeling, and they shared a look of alarm, concern and worry.

“Did you…?” the blonde asked.

“Nothing since earlier this week—Tuesday?” the albino replied. “You?”

“The same…”

That only meant one thing in Gilbert’s mind: someone had touched their angel, and now the demon was rattling the bars of its iron cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm writing in advance, some details do change and I have had to go back and edit little things. As such, in Chapter 1, it's now been made clear that Antonio met Francis through Arthur rather than meeting Arthur through Francis. Seems irrevlevant for now, but to be honest, it makes much more sense now that I've written ahead and know where things are actually going.
> 
> Anyways, this is it for the present day for the time being. Soon enough, we'll see what happened for Antonio to find himself in this muddle that is his life, and how he falls into his unescapable pit.


	6. The Life We Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Antonio: the story; or, 'it was all fun and games until someone got a taste for superiority'...

_January 2014_

Antonio was walking home from the bookshop where he worked, scarf wrapped tight around his neck and an old cup of tea in his hands, sloshing with each step he took. Winter was particularly cold that season which had been a tough challenge for a lover of the warm weather, but he had had to take it in his stride. He couldn’t command the clouds, after all.

Besides, going home meant he had something to look forward to to save him from the cold—the heating would be on, dinner had been ordered in and was on its way, and judging from the second text that had come through on his phone, there would be yet more to come after the food had been eaten. Antonio smiled to himself at that. It was such a silly thing to say, _oh, and you also have me to keep you warm_ , but it was just the sort of thing he liked to hear. Endearing, charming...

Such were the sentiments of a new, blossoming relationship. They had known each other for a short while and in a whirlwind romance, Antonio and Arthur had found themselves living together in the home Arthur had been leased by Marie and Jaque Bonnefoi—now their own. And it hadn’t taken them long to feel as though they could see some of themselves in the warm dwelling they had created, adorned with artwork and books and cooking utensils that Antonio had plucked from his previous home with his family (which he had been extremely grateful to leave; the Catholic iconography was becoming overbearing for the overtly gay youth, even though they accepted him).

Other people had thought—had _said_ —they were crazy for such a hasty decision, but they had seen no issue. Arthur had dismissed the comments from his friends just as quickly as Antonio had dismissed the ones from his overly cautious ( _Jealous, more like!_ ) brother. One time, the blonde had even had friends he had known since childhood over for dinner and had invited them to either stop talking out of their asses or their asses would be shown the door.

But you’re too different, Afonso had told his brother one evening on the phone. Opposites attract, was Antonio’s response, and that’s that. He had never had the time for people who had no faith in happiness in what he’d found; for so long his family had been telling the sons to find someone of substance who they could care for and be cared for by, and he had done it. So why were they so suddenly opposed it?

At the door of the small townhouse, Antonio pulled out the spare key he had been gifted at the very start and opened the door, announcing his arrival with a cheerful _hello!_ as he closed it behind him. He unravelled his scarf and put his travel cup down on a coaster (it had to be on a coaster; the heat would leave a ring) on the side table, and he slipped his canvas bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. He could already feel himself warming up, the cold being forced from his skin. It was good to be home.

“Arthur?” he called out having had no response. The lights were on, and Arthur had texted him presumably from the house, so where was he?

Not thinking much of it, Antonio picked up his cup once more and went to the kitchen so he could pour away the now cold drink. He was stopped in the doorway, however, by quite possibly the last thing he had expected to see that evening.

Arthur was _dancing_.

He had earphones in so hadn’t heard the door go, nor Antonio’s calls, but the Spaniard found this a much better welcome home, a smile growing on his face. He leant against the doorframe and silently watched Arthur’s steps as he attempted what Antonio believed to be cross-body salsa, and he wasn’t too badly on his own bearing in mind they had only ever tried it once, but there was still some improvement needed.

He couldn’t wait, he decided; Antonio went up to Arthur (or his back, at least) and put his hand on one of his shoulders, making the Brit jump out of his skin.

“Fucking—!” Arthur spin around and looked prepared to attack his assailant, but he redirected the energy when he recognised Antonio. “Bloody hell, you loon! Are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?!”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Antonio answered with cheek. “The sooner I bump you off, the sooner I get all the cookbooks and DVDs, no?”

“Ha, not anymore, you’re not,” the blonde responded. He removed the earphones, placed his phone on the side, and apparently decided that silent treatment for Antonio’s admittedly terrible comedy was what he deserved.

The brunette, however, was not so easily deterred. “So, you’re dancing now, huh?”

“Am I?”

“Well, it _looked_ like it, but...” He trailed off, teasing.

“…Was is not obvious what I was doing?” Arthur asked incredulously.

Antonio hummed. “Your feet need a little work, but it was obvious enough for me, a Spaniard—” He gave a theatrical smile. “—to recognise someone doing the salsa, cariño. You’re doing well!”

“Hm, cheers.”

After a short silence, Arthur looked ready to busy himself with anything to avoid the topic, but if that was something he truly wanted to do, he had picked the wrong guy to woo. The brunette saw that Arthur had seriously been trying—that he clearly wanted to learn—and so he stole one of the other’s hands and met his gaze with a soft, encouraging look.

“How about I teach you?” he offered. Arthur gave a bit of a grimace. “Come on, just for a little bit so you know all of the basics, hm?”

“I really don’t think it’s a good idea—”

But Antonio wasn’t going to give him much choice and instead gave an innocently charming smile. “Do you want to lead or follow?”

* * *

_April 2014_

Antonio had been awake for a short while but unfortunately, he had work that morning and couldn’t stay for long before he had to get going. Arthur was still sound asleep, but he decided that perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing; it was St. George’s Day, and the small surprise that the Spaniard had in store would be best left until after work anyway.

He ate breakfast on the way—only a banana, accompanied by a coffee in his trusty travel cup—and endured his five-hour shift with ease. The bookshop was a cosy place, quaint and never too busy. It was a sanctuary. And when he arrived and spoke to the owner, a kindly woman called Helena, about what he wanted to do for his boyfriend, she had praised the wonderful idea and allowed him to spend some time on the floor perusing the shelves for exactly what he was looking for.

Reading books had been one of his favourite childhood pastimes, and as he grew up, he had come to notice that on a certain day of every year, his parents had a tradition that he had always seen as incredibly romantic and sweet: on April 23rd, they gifted each other a rose and a copy of one of their favourite books, then made a dinner for themselves so they could truly embrace the love the day brought them.

“There you are!” he whispered victoriously as he found at last, after ten minutes of searching, the book he had been looking for. He pulled it from the shelf with a smile, fingers trailing down the spine. “I knew you were here somewhere.”

All that remained for him to do was stop by at the open market on the way home that afternoon. He knew the florist quite well and had no issues securing a freshly-cut red rose, but then he realised he needed to think of something he could cook for both him and Arthur, and he was stuck. What was Arthur’s favourite thing to eat? It was a hard question to answer—he was not all that fussy, but it would have to be some kind of seafood dish, right?

A shopping list formed itself as Antonio slowly got back to walking, and half an hour later, he had a bag filled to the brim with everything he needed.

When he arrived back home, the house was empty. He found a note in the kitchen saying that Arthur had finally woken up and gone to quickly restock the fridge before they starved themselves and to also pop in and visit a friend for a cup of tea. He would be back at around 3 o’clock.

Antonio could work with that.

By the time Arthur came back just after the clock had chimed the hour, Antonio had already wrapped the book up in brown paper and red ribbon and left the gesture in the living room next to a tray of small, sweet goodies. Dinner was prepped for, the downstairs rooms had been hastily cleaned (though to an impressively high standard) and all that was left to do was greet Arthur with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“What have you done…?” the Brit asked warily—accusingly—as the Spaniard pulled away and gave him a warm smile. His brows gently creased. “Did you break something?”

“Am I not allowed to say hello to you, bearing in mind I didn’t get to see you this morning?” Antonio replied with a daring look.

Arthur hummed. He was definitely still suspicious. “Of course… How was work?”

“Eh, it was the same as always,” the other responded, but he had to quickly step in front of Arthur before he walked into the kitchen rather than the room Antonio had hoped he would go to first. “Quiet and peaceful!”

“What are you doing? I need to get a drink—”

“Oh, I already made you one!” Antonio said, the opportunity having arisen.

He directed Arthur silently to the adjacent living room and followed the hesitant blonde as he marched on through to the larger room. It was filled with golden light, the natural warmth of the sun, and Arthur stopped in his tracks when he was presented with a coffee table laden with some of his favourite sweet treats, a rose, a present and a card.

Satisfied that he had surprised Arthur well enough, he gave his boyfriend a hug from behind and said “I love you,” in as many ways he could think to.

* * *

_August 2014_

The sound of porcelain smashing against the tile kitchen floor rang through the house and glued itself to Antonio’s memories. He had flinched as soon as the cup had left the hand, and now he opened his eyes to look despondently at the fragments, and then at Arthur. An Arthur who had recently come back from seeing friends and appeared to be incredibly drunk.

Antonio was going to kill Mathias.

“Arthur, come on,” the brunette urged, though he made to effort to move in case the next cup was thrown much closer to him this time, “you need to go to bed and get some rest. Y-You’re not thinking straight!”

“I’ve never thought so straight in my life!” the Brit protested, however. “Everything seems so suddenly c—” He hiccupped. “Clear!”

“What on Earth are you talking about? Just— Come on, the alcohol is muddling your thoughts, I—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“I’m just—! I’m not telling you what to do, I-I just think it would be best if—!”

Antonio swore in his native language and had to think fast as a cup, despite his efforts, came hurtling towards him. His legs pulled him to the right and he could feel panic swirling about in his stomach in a wicked concoction, mixed with nausea and fear. This was the second time this had happened in the last two months. Arthur would go out with his friends, get obscenely drunk, and then suddenly all of the crap that had apparently been building up over the last few weeks—typically paranoia of cheating, of side glances and secret messages—would be thrown at Antonio whether verbally or physically.

But Antonio knew he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to scare him, he didn’t mean to make him worry for both of them, he didn’t mean to make him cry once he was finally asleep and unaware of everything that was happening…

Because Arthur loved him, he reminded himself that night once Arthur was in the arms of sleep and he had decided to take the couch instead. Arthur loved him—and alcohol just confused him.

* * *

_October 2014_

Halloween had arrived! Sure, Antonio would be missing the summer months, but he absolutely _loved_ Halloween and all of the festivities that took place between the 31st of October and the 2nd of November.

It was Hallow’s Eve that very night. Arthur and Antonio had been tending to the door in set shifts, distributing candy and doing their bit to help all of the dentists in the area freak out during appointments with the very same children over the coming few weeks. Cavities galore!

Now the time had come, however, for all the little monsters in the streets to go home and for the couple to settle down on the couch together and indulge in some horror films. Antonio loved horror films—especially the ones with the paranormal activity, the ones that kept you awake all night with fear—and it had been a blessing to learn that Arthur was exactly the same. They had both been surprised, in fact, by the revelation a couple of weeks prior, but they had wasted no time in putting each other to the test with a viewing of ‘Oculus.’

It was safe to say that Antonio had covered the bedroom mirror without hesitation.

Yet, that night, he felt incredibly safe with Arthur at his side this time around. They remained close together, wrapped tightly under several blankets, both of which proved incredibly useful when the brunette nearly had a heart attack thanks to a well-timed jump-scare. He had cursed and they had laughed, pausing the third film of the night so they could try and compose themselves… But the composure didn’t come.

Antonio had apologised repeatedly for his antics (frantics?) and told Arthur to just resume the movie. However, Arthur had insisted that he wanted to make sure Antonio was perfectly okay and comfortable before they continued.

He wasn’t sure how it happened. Maybe it was the inviting smile, the look in his eyes that dared him, or the way that Arthur’s fingers seemed to have minds of their own and trailed across his body in a whole host of ways… The warmth of the blankets, the warmth of their bodies up against each other. The thrill of suddenly being pushed backwards and down onto his back. The excited knot in his stomach that only grew tighter as Arthur crawled on top of him.

Somehow, it happened. Somehow it happened, and was magical, fun, naughty and delightful all in one, and Antonio woke up the next morning alone on the sofa to the smell of a hearty breakfast and marks all over his skin from fingers, teeth and nails.

* * *

_December 2014_

It had happened again. Only God and the mulled wine knew how, but the entire month seemed to be littered with waking up with headaches and mild sickness, followed by the discovery of incredibly scandalous marks tainting his olive skin.

Antonio always felt odd about it on those mornings, seeing his body in such a way, but then he remembered all of the sensations from the night before—nibbles down his neck, nails latching onto his hips, fingers dragging down and loving his thighs—and he knew that there was nothing more that he could have wished for that Christmas than someone so attentive and, well, perfect!

* * *

_February 2015_

The New Year had brought about some changes. Arthur had taken Antonio to a party where he had formally—at last—met all of the family and friends that the Brit had associated himself with for almost all of his life. They were a friendly bunch but absolutely wild, most of them. In fact, Antonio would have gone as far to say only a couple people out of the sixty invitees were normal in any sense of the word, but it had been fun all the same.

Now, a month and twelve days into 2015, Antonio’s twenty-second birthday had arrived and he got out of bed feeling as happy and bright as ever. Christmas and his birthday were the only big, constant things that he felt got him through the winter months, but he felt this year would provide some incredible changes for both him and Arthur. He couldn’t deny he was looking forward to seeing where fate took them.

They had been together for some fourteen months, now. Almost fifteen. They had had their rocky moments—the nights where Antonio had to call a friend or even his brother for some sort of support because he couldn’t handle Arthur in his drunken rampages any longer—but they had had their glory days, too. Some people still looked at their relationship with scepticism but as time had passed, so did most of the stigmas, and they had peace.

Well, at least, Antonio liked to tell himself that.

The Spaniard was making breakfast in the kitchen, knowing Arthur would be up presently to join him, and he took to humming a quite tune to himself. He had already been interrupted by two phone calls—one from his parents, the other from his brother—wishing him a happy birthday from Spain and a nearby neighbourhood respectively, but his mission was one he was not going to fail. Eggs were cooked, bacon was fried, and the toast popped out of the funny little machine with a cheerful _ping!_

And then arms snaked around his waist and he felt a head rest itself on his right shoulder. “Good morning,” he greeted, though he got no immediate response from Arthur. He didn’t think much of it—the other was probably still trying to wake up—and continued to finish of the simple breakfast with some griddled tomatoes and mushrooms (because healthy eating was important) whilst Arthur just held onto him.

However, when Antonio needed to actually move, Arthur did not seem so willing to let go and allow him his freedom.

“Hey, come on, cariño,” the brunette said, his hands on top of Arthur’s as he tried to release himself, “if you want a cuddle we can have one in a bit, but you need to eat something first. Okay?”

Arthur mumbled something to himself but agreed, letting Antonio crack on with a quick peck on the cheek before he went about making the tea to go with their food.

At the breakfast table, they spoke animatedly (or at least, Antonio did) about the day’s plans: Antonio was going to his brother’s house in the afternoon, along with some of his own friends, for a get-together over a traditional Iberian lunch that Afonso had insisted on. Whilst it was also made clear that Arthur had been invited, the invitation had been turned down—he wasn’t feeling too well, apparently, and would rather avoid the noise and ruckus he knew came with Antonio’s small clan.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Antonio offered. There was something in Arthur’s eyes—for only a split second—before the blonde shook his head. “I don’t mind. If you’re not well, then I don’t want to leave you on your own.”

“It’s your birthday,” Arthur responded, “you should at least see them and enjoy it while it lasts, eh?”

“Are you sure?”

“We have all evening together,” was the reply, complete with a faint but secretive smirk, and Antonio knew that whatever Arthur had planned, it was something that was going to be much better than the homemade churros his brother had been taught to make by their father—and those things had saved him from _many_ a dark place in his youth.

The party itself seemed to fly by. It was jovial and exactly the kind of fiesta that Antonio loved, surrounded by friends and good food, but he would have been lying if he had ever said his mind didn’t wander to Arthur and whatever the Brit had put together for his birthday. He had received flowers and chocolates, alcohol and other random bits and bobs, but Arthur’s gift was the one that stayed on his mind. What could it be, he wondered, lost in thought as the music played on.

“Excuse me,” someone said, tapping on his shoulder and pulling him from his mind, “I thought you might want a drink.”

A newer face gave Antonio a smile and held out a glass of sangria, which the Spaniard took with thanks. This new face was one he had met only a handful of times—and thanks to Arthur more than anyone—and it was nice to see that Francis had accepted the offer to come along and see what Antonio’s family and co. got up to.

Francis sat down next to him. “They are a very lively bunch,” he remarked, gesturing to the people:

Afonso was singing and dancing no doubt thanks to the wine; Lars, his boyfriend, was trying to keep up with his pace; Emma appeared to be having a giggle fit; Lovino was with Emma and had turned bright red; Feliciano had suddenly joined in with the dancing and singing; Sadiq was raiding the buffet table; Maximo was trying to defend his _turrones_ from Sadiq— All in all, it was exactly the kind of thing that Antonio loved to watch, and Francis seemed just as amused.

“I wouldn’t have them any other way,” he thus told Francis with an almost proud smile.

They looked at each other with the same kind of bemusement in their eyes, they put their glasses together with a satisfying _ching!_ and the next hour and a half was whatever the mood made it to be.

Antonio came home at around five o’clock—a little later, he mumbled after checking his phone, and he did the usual routine of calling out to Arthur to see if he was around.

Just as many previous times, however, an answer was not given and Antonio gained a little frown. Where was he? But then—oh—he remembered that Arthur had said he had not been feeling too well, so perhaps he was in bed trying to rest a bit. That made more sense, Antonio mused, and he decided to quickly go and check the bedroom to see if Arthur was indeed there.

But he wasn’t.

He went back downstairs, an ounce more speed in his movements, and checked the kitchen to see if a note had been left for him that explained where Arthur had gone.

But there wasn’t.

This was too out of the ordinary, he concluded. Arthur had to be around somewhere, right? He wouldn’t just vanish—especially not on such a day—and Antonio wondered if he had done something without realising that had upset him in some way. God, where was he? Where had he gone, why had he gone, was it his fault?

And then—arms. Arms locked themselves around his waist, just like they had done that morning, but Antonio’s worry had not yet been replaced entirely with relief. He was still confused. He was still lost.

“Arthur?”

No answer. He only felt this other body against his, arms shifting and holding him closer, warm breath tickling the back of his neck.

“Arthur, what’s wrong?”

Nothing once more. It was definitely Arthur— _who else could it possibly be?_ —but Antonio knew that something was amiss. Something was surrounding them in the air, a bad feeling, a feeling that something bad had happened or was going to happen, and the worry he had felt was slowly being turned into concern and growing alarm. Was that alcohol he could smell?

“Look, whatever’s the matter, you can talk to me about it,” he pressed on, concern and alarm becoming concern for himself and a new, swelling anxiety. “We don’t need to—”

Two arms became one and he felt the other slowly and gently glide up and up and up, until cold fingers touched his cheek and in his ear came a hauntingly calm shushing noise. Antonio didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t understand it, he couldn’t find any obvious reason that had driven Arthur to the bottle that night or why suddenly, it was no longer crockery being thrown around but emotions and terror.

This was something plucked out of one of his own psychological horror-thriller hybrid films, Antonio cursed, and he wondered if the ending of whatever episode they were having would finish in a similar manner…

“A-Arthur, please,” he said, trying to get the other’s arm off him, but all it did was provoke the blonde who tightened his grip and clamped his other hand over Antonio’s mouth to shut him up.

_You’re going to die here._

That thought had only ever crossed his mind once before, one night last November when a thrown glass had created a gash on his forehead. But this—this was different. This didn’t feel like spontaneous anger brought about by whisky and vodka, this was a living nightmare, and it made Antonio begin to tremble in the arms of someone he thought was safe. Someone he thought he could trust. Someone he... _Loved_...

Tears were starting to form as the panic in his system only grew more prominent. The room began to twist and turn and sway in every possible direction. His own grip on the offensive arms was slipping as quickly as his consciousness was, and before he had completely fallen, he felt himself being let go— _freedom?—_ before fingers grabbed his hair and threw him forward. The last thing the Spaniard remembered was something solid and cold smashing into his head, and then the entire world had gone black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - now that Reading Week is over I've a lot on for the rest of this semester with exams and essays and societies and stuff so updates will probably be somewhat less regular for the time being. Learning languages, boi. Hard. 
> 
> But fun, I'm not hating aH-
> 
> Anyways, so...
> 
> Arthur is a dick.
> 
> Summary of this entire chapter, basically.
> 
> Tell
> 
> Me
> 
> I'm
> 
> Wrong.
> 
> And you know what, I could have played with these two a lot more and their relationship, but Francis and Gilbert have arguably a lot to answer for as well, which is, overall, more important in this story when we consider that they're meant to be Antonio's partners... Eesh…
> 
> And can we also appreciate the 4377 words that make up this chapter? New personal record. Gg, me.


	7. My Great Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio has moved on from Arthur, and finds a new light in new people and lovers.
> 
> Everything is perfect. Everything is absolutely, one-hundred percent fine. Okay?

_May 2015_

It had taken another three months for Antonio to leave. It had taken three months of being confused, being lost, being pulled and led around like a puppy, being loved one night and hit the next in a blind drunken rage… And he had been kicked out—he wasn’t even the one to walk away.

Arthur had confronted him one night, sober as a baby, and demanded to know of his relationship with his adoptive brother, Francis, and Antonio had seen it as the perfect scapegoat to make his great escape.

“I don’t love you anymore,” he had said without looking at him. “I’m sorry, but… I’ve moved on…”

“Then get the fuck out.”                                                                                                                                                       

It had been so simple. Antonio had wasted no time in gathering his stuff and leaving. It was around midnight, it was chilly, and it was liberating to finally be walking out of the house with no intentions of coming back. Arthur hadn’t even tried to stop him—as soon as he had dismissed the other, he had taken himself upstairs and shut himself away in the study. The chain that had bound Antonio there ever since February had been loosened.

But now that he was breaking free, breaking the links, Antonio felt a heaviness in his chest. Where would he go now? What could anyone do, who would he turn to?

_No one._

He had never brought himself to tell anyone what had happened. He was ashamed of himself, and even as he walked out in the middle of the night with a bag packed and the house disappearing up the street behind him, it felt that the chain was becoming taut and was trying to pull him back. Once, in early April, the chain had pulled him back successfully after he made it to the end of the street on his own, having snuck out of the house. His failed attempt had been punished...

A hand slid up to his throat as he walked. His body still ached from the activities he had endured only hours before. It was hard for him to deny that there had been amazing times. Even as he walked, his mind made him think of all the good times they shared—their first Valentine’s, the weekend breaks to Madrid and London, the flowers and the presents and the apology kisses that went all up and down—

His headache got worse. He needed to go somewhere, somewhere safe from judgement and somewhere safe in general, perhaps. But where? He took his phone from his pocket and tried to rub the blurriness from his eyes as he tried to look at his contacts list. Who wouldn’t ask questions? His brother surely would—he’d open the door, see the marks and demand an explanation. Lovino would do the same, but only in the morning when he was actually awake enough to notice. Heck, he probably couldn’t even go to Emma because she’d hound him for answers.

Antonio didn’t want that. He didn’t want to have to explain everything that had happened, he just wanted the company of someone who also knew Arthur well enough to see it from the same angle and reassure him that none of it was ever meant but that they needed to be apart now for both of their sakes.

And as he scrolled, he came upon the name of someone who would fulfil those responsibilities.

He hoped he would answer, he hoped that he wasn’t a heavy sleeper, he hoped that the next door would be opened for him and he could put this all behind him at last.

“Hello?” an extremely tired voice said through the phone. “Antonio?”

“Francis, I— I’m sorry to bother you but… I…”

How could he ask for help, he realised, however, and expect to not have to say anything about what had happened? Suddenly, it was all coming back to him, he felt like this was all a mistake, that he needed to turn back—to run back—that he needed to—needed to—to—

“Toni,” Francis said quietly. The silence had clearly attracted his attention, and the Spaniard stopped walking, unable to move, “what’s happened?”

And Antonio wasn’t so sure he could answer. What _had_ happened? Things were blurred. He couldn’t differentiate the events. His heart ached but now he couldn’t tell if it was longing— _longing for what?_ —for someone to hold him (someone who had been holding him for over a year now)—or longing for liberation— _liberation from what?_ —from something— _but what?!_ —that had kept him tied down for so long, made him a slave.

“Where are you?”

That was a good question; he couldn’t tell, he couldn’t remember.

“Are you at home?”

What was home? He had no home. He had no room to lock himself in so that he could cry.

“Toni, I need you to speak to me.”

He blinked, did a quick turn to see where he was, who was around, and found himself all alone except for the voice on the phone. “The bottom of our street,” he eventually found himself saying. “Near the bus stop.”

“Okay, good,” Francis said. There was something so soothing about his voice and how calm he sounded despite being so rudely awoken, it was almost exactly what he needed. “If you stay there, I’ll come and pick you up. Is that okay, Toni?”

Antonio hummed, but when asked if he could say words so that Francis could be sure, he just about managed to give a ‘yes please’ before being promised that he would be collected in around fifteen minutes. After he put his phone away, all he could do was walk himself to the bus stop a few metres away, slow, zombie-like, before sitting down on the bench and finally crying.

* * *

_June 2015_

Antonio had been living with Francis in his small apartment ever since that night. He hadn’t ever said anything more on the topic besides how he and Arthur had simply decided to call it quits, and he had been nothing but grateful when Francis didn’t push to know about the various bruises and marks that had made themselves known over the following few days. In all, Antonio couldn’t have asked for anyone better or more understanding. He hadn’t even told Arthur that Antonio was there—only that he knew they had broken up.

It was a rainy day—unusual for how sunny it had been of late—and the brunette was in the kitchen watching some cakes slowly rise in the oven. Ha, children, he thought to himself. Maternity. Would he ever be a father? He certainly wasn’t very good at being a lover, so he would be very surprised. Heck, was he even a good son, a good brother? These thoughts had crossed his mind frequently—about the prospects of parenthood, his failures as a human—and had learnt to simply accept that perhaps it wasn’t the sort of life he was supposed to have.

_The life you don’t deserve to have, you mean._

The door to the flat opened and Francis came in, hair wet and coat dripping with rain water. God’s tears, Antonio’s mother called the rain. For what reason God was crying, however, was not one that Antonio knew. Maybe he too felt his own failures every time he looked down at the human race. Ha. Pity.

“Welcome back,” the Spaniard greeted with a smile from across the open space. “How was work?”

“Ah, not too bad,” Francis replied, hanging his coat up to dry on a lone hook. He flicked wet hair out of his face with a sour, upset look, and walked into the flat. “Just busy, but it is never any different, no?”

“Sounds about right,” Antonio mused.

Francis removed his shoes and came to the kitchen, a smile now on his face. He did that a lot and Antonio wasn’t sure why. Every time he came into the apartment from work, there was an air of boredom and disdain about the Frenchman, but then, when he came through and saw Antonio, a smile came onto his face. Was Francis trying to hide his feelings behind a smile too?

“What are you making?” the blonde asked, peering into the illuminated oven, smile still holding firm (maybe it _was_ genuine; Antonio was good at telling what was fake these days, after all).

“Just some cupcakes. Orange and chocolate,” Antonio replied. He smiled back when Francis looked at him, delighted. “I figured I’d try something new. I was getting bored of lemon.”

“Well, I’m sure these will be just as delicious, Toni,” Francis assured him.

He went to the kettle and began to boil some water—presumably for a coffee, knowing his routine now—and then leant against the kitchen side, blue eyes once more fixed on green ones that were just as curious. God, Antonio couldn’t explain it, but it was the little things like that with Francis that made him feel something different inside, and he didn’t know whether to be afraid of it or not.

He couldn’t be scared forever, he told himself, gaze returning to the oven. But then, Arthur had made him feel so many things inside that he thought were good—so he thought that _he_ was good—and look what happened. Trusting was not easy, now. People had to earn it. They had to prove themselves worthy.

And yet, there he was, his eyes flickering back to the blonde whose eyes had not once parted from him, and a tiny piece of his heart said: _maybe._ Because Francis cared about him. Francis looked out for him, looked after him, and made sure he felt welcome every second of every day that they saw each other, and Antonio could not see a single fault in such a kind, caring soul.

* * *

_December 2015_

“Toni, meet Gil,” Francis said, the bobble on the top of his Santa hat flicking about as he turned his head with spiced energy (the mulled wine, back at it again), “Gilbert, meet Antonio.”

Antonio and Gilbert shook hands, the only polite thing that seemed appropriate given that they had never met before. Of course, Francis had told several stories concerning his German friend to Antonio over the past six months, but to meet him in person was something quite different. His red eyes in particular were striking, though oddly attracting. It was an effort to stop looking into them and just staring…

“Franny has told me quite a lot about you,” Gilbert supplied to break the momentary silence that fell.

At that, Antonio only went red (like those deep crimson eyes…) and coy. “Only the good things, I hope,” he replied, giving the blonde a wary glance.

Francis only laughed, the ass.

“Trust me, from what I heard,” Gilbert reassured him, however, retrieving his attention without any kind of hesitance, “you’re a very good person. And you treat this guy very well.”

“Well, one good turn deserves another, right?”

Antonio felt an arm just gently loop around his back, a hand on his waist and giving him a little playful pull closer, and he smiled at the ridiculously silly yet charming blonde that smiled right back. It had been two months since they had started seeing each other properly, as an _item_. Things were going well!

“You’re so sweet it’s sickening,” the albino teased. Francis gave him a meaningless slap on the arm and Antonio laughed. “But seriously, I’m happy for you. It takes time to find the right person, but you guys may have done it.”

“Aww, bless you…”

“Speaking of which,” Francis added, “what’s happened with you and your own beloved, hm?”

“Ah, well, _that_ …”

Antonio recognised something in Gilbert in that moment: an unwillingness to speak, visible in how he stopped making eye contact and had closed in on himself ever so slightly. But it was enough for the Spaniard. Gilbert had been seeing a guy from some other European country, Francis had told him a short while back, but things had been a little patchy as of late. Perhaps the year had brought about the end of another relationship.

The brunette tried to catch his gaze. “You don’t have to answer him, you know,” he assured him. “If you think he’s prying, by all means, hit him if you feel like it.”

“Oh, charming!” Francis remarked, giving an overly dramatic display as he took a large sip of mulled wine from his glass.

“Whatever’s wrong, just… Spend tonight forgetting about it,” Antonio pressed on as he resisted the temptation to elbow the Frenchie. “If you dwell on the bad, you’ll only forget the good.”

And you know what, Antonio quickly discovered that Gilbert was a very, _very_ good listener. The trio had several more drinks together and Antonio felt like he was gaining a new friend through the bonding they were having over the sound of the loud festive music, and in the end, he had to be honest with himself: he wasn’t surprised at all when he woke up the next morning to two other men in bed with him, all utterly (and wonderfully) naked.

* * *

_May 2016_

A whole year since he had left Arthur.

How did he celebrate, you ask?

How do you _think_ he celebrated?

In the arms of both of the men he loved, of course, who did everything in their power to love him and cuddle him despite the fact that neither of them knew or remembered it was the anniversary of such an important event, nor what had happened for the event to occur.

But that was what Antonio loved, you see: the spontaneity. The random bouts of extra loving that he received without needing to ask or beg or plead.

And the mere coincidence that such a thing fell upon such a day was a bonus for him and the covers were pulled over all three of them and the giggles, laughs, cries and moans began, lasting throughout most of the long, blissful night.

_What the fuck did you ever do to deserve this?_

* * *

_September 2016_

The flat was theirs. The contract had been signed, the money handed over, and a week on the trio were now moving into the place they could call their own and start to weave their own, brand new memories together.

Antonio let out a content sigh as he adjusted a picture hanging on the wall, straightening it out, and he bit his lip and he gave it a final look-over. Perfect? Perfect.

_Can it ever be perfect, though? You’re here._

He shooed away the silly, childish thought and looked to see Francis putting away his final bits of cooking paraphernalia in the selected cupboards and Gilbert flicking the kettle on so that they could enjoy their first hot drink in the living room of their new home altogether, at last! Oh, it felt so good to be there. Sure, it was the same city, the same views from the windows, but it was a fresh page and Antonio couldn’t wait to get painting.

But with hindsight, perhaps if he had seen what colours would start to fill the canvas over the next year and a bit, he would have thought more carefully of the design he had had in mind…

* * *

_January 2017_

The clock had just struck midnight and the new year had begun. The party continued, the twelve Spanish grapes were readily consumed as per tradition and the house (and all of the surrounding streets) was filled with the jubilations of the people that filled it.

Antonio and his brother were enjoying an exhilarating alcoholic mix that had already downed two other people for the night (sorry Emma, sorry Francis!) amongst the rest of the chaos of the elder’s crammed house. It was hard not to lose yourself, to be honest. The music blared, the lights flared, and the overwhelming number of different smells in the air were rather devastating for the nostrils—unless you were, of course, drunk.

Nevertheless, Antonio needed fresh air. After a couple of shots of whatever the heck Afonso had poured into that jug, he made his way outside into the garden. He had thought it empty at first, but then he had spotted at the far end the gentle glow of a lighter, and then, a cigarette. There was only one of three people it could have been and given that, the last time he saw, Maximo was too busy letting loose on the dancefloor and Lars had been trying to get his dear Afonso to slow down, that thus left Gilbert as the only remaining option.

Gilbert did not smoke very much.

Antonio had only seen him do so a few times, and never in the apartment (for legal reasons above all else, he believed) but there was some kind of nostalgia that came to him with the smell of freshly lit tobacco, the smoke in the air. It was probably because of his father, he supposed as he decided to see if Gilbert was okay, given that the man had smoked every day of his life since he was sixteen. Ha, what a guy…

“Heya,” he greeted as he drew nearer. When he thought about it, however, he hadn’t yet been hit by the smell of cigarette smoke and his Spanish home, so what was it that lingered in the air? “Not too cold out here?”

Antonio could barely see Gilbert in the dark of the new day, but when he did not get an immediate answer and was instead granted a single cloud of this odd-smelling smoke, he wondered if it was just because he had asked a silly question. It was quite cold out after all, though, at the same time, Gilbert liked the cold. Maybe he was just okay. Maybe that was it.

“What do you think of everyone?” he took to asking instead. This was the first time Gilbert was meeting some of Antonio’s closest friends, after all, so it would hopefully be a better conversation starter.

Or… Not.

When he was met with only another puff of stinky smoke, Antonio was well and truly bewildered. Was it something he had said? Was he asking the wrong things? Why wasn’t Gilbert talking to him? The German gave him a pat on the shoulder before putting out whatever he was smoking in the grass and heading back towards the party, but Antonio didn’t follow.

_What did you do?_

He had no idea. He hadn’t said anything that would have offended him, as far as he was aware, and everything had been okay a few hours before, the trio all laughing together as they got ready to enjoy the beginning of a new year together. So what was wrong?

_You._

Antonio sighed, resigned, and he dragged himself back into the warmth of his brother’s house and the bubble of celebration that surrounded everyone inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love, love, love! How devastating it can prove to be! The New Year marks a change for these guys, but what will it be, and will Antonio be able to get through? Find out next week, on: 'Everyone is a mess including the author who is writing this hahaaaa!'
> 
> I have three exams next week. Don't mind me.
> 
> I'm going home this weekend from uni for a lil' break and then I've a month left before I'm home again and off to Barcelonaaaaa~ My sanity needs that holiday. Not sure if I even want to come back, tbh. 
> 
> Hope everyone here is having a better time than I am and I will see you all next week, where hopefully, I'll finally update the other story...! :'v


	8. Two Sets of Handprints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Threesome: Part Two!
> 
> What happens in what Antonio refers to as the 'second phase' of his relationship with Francis and Gilbert, and will Antonio find himself falling down familiar rabbit holes?

_July 2017_

“I don’t see why you think this is my fault,” Francis tried to reason, but it only fell on deaf ears. “Only one person here smokes something that they shouldn’t, Gil, and it might surprise you to learn that it’s damaging more people than just yourself.”

Gilbert had stormed out of the flat almost immediately after that reality check, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving a despondent Francis and a silenced Antonio in his wake.

This was the third time that Francis had attempted to get Gilbert to stop buying and smoking weed; the smell was beginning to cling to the German and follow him around, and he was becoming less and less pleasant to be around with each passing week. Gilbert said he needed it to help him relax. Francis had insisted that that was what he and Antonio were there for—not the drugs.

To be honest, Antonio wasn’t entirely sure that that was why he was there, but he hadn’t interjected to make any kind of amendment because he didn’t want to interrupt and be yelled at again. That was _also_ becoming more frequent thanks to Gilbert’s bad habit. Yelling, snarky comments hissed under breath, an empty third of the bed because Francis refused to let him into the bedroom when he smelt of the crap he smoked…

_You’re all falling apart. You’re good at making that happen, have you noticed?_

“What can we do?” Francis asked with a lost, redundant sigh. He gave Antonio an apologetic look, no doubt on Gilbert’s behalf, and offered him a hug and kiss to try and keep things less tense in the atmosphere.

Antonio didn’t have an answer to his question.

That evening, Francis was not home—he was at his parent’s house paying them an overnight visit following a sudden (but not deadly) illness his mother had contracted—and Antonio spent the silent hours reading in his chair in the corner of the living space, gentle music playing, blanket wrapped all around him, feet pulled up onto the seat. It was tranquil, relaxing.

Until Gilbert came barging through the door.

When he saw him and the rather messy state he was in, Antonio had put the book down with haste and had gone to help make sure Gilbert didn’t fall over as he walked (stumbled) towards the kitchen. He reeked of alcohol—vodka in particular—and that was when Antonio knew he would have his work cut out for him.

“Right, come on,” he said, assisting the German over to the breakfast bar so he could lean on the counter, “you need a drink of water and sleep, I think.”

Gilbert slurred something in response, no doubt about not wanting to go to bed yet because it was too early, but Antonio chose to ignore him and poured him a glass of warm water from the kettle (which he had thankfully not long used to produce his own hot drink). It was something his cousin swore by in order to help someone sober up quicker, and Antonio had seen it work on other people, so why not Gilbert, too?

The taller male turned his nose up at the drink at first, face scrunched up in disapproval. “You want me to drink this, huh?” he asked, though, his words were much less coherent than what Antonio eventually interpreted them as.

“For you own sake, and mine, yes,” he replied with a small amount of assertion—something he struggled to do so often these days.

“Hm.”

Gilbert picked up the half-full glass, stared at its contents, swirled it around a bit, left, right, round and round— And then the bastard poured it straight out onto the side, allowing the water to cascade down onto the kitchen counter and then the floor. Antonio gave him a look of horror and annoyance, but Gilbert’s face remained flat and uncaring.

_You’re such a doormat, you know._

Fuck, it was a good job the water had gone towards the tile and not the carpet—Antonio didn’t think he would’ve had the patience to try and dry it with an evidently off-his-rockers Gilbert stood watching over him.

With a huff, he pulled his eyes away from Gilbert and went to take back the glass, but this became a game very, very quickly. Gilbert didn’t want to hand it over. He teased Antonio with it, holding it out to him and then stealing it away before it could be snatched and daring to grin in his face whilst he did so. This was becoming a joke, and one that lacked a punchline.

“Gilbert, I swear to God, give me the—!”

“Why should I?”

“So I can clean up and kick your ass into bed,” Antonio retaliated. There was no more room for calm and tranquillity. There was only desperation and frustration. “Now give it to me and—”

Antonio made a hasty dart for the glass but once more, he was unable to grab it; rather, it was Gilbert who did the grabbing, as he fiercely secured his free hand around a tanned wrist, rendering the offensive useless. The brunette had gotten himself into a bit of a pickle, now, and both of them seemed to know it very well.

_Now you’ve done it._

_You’ve pissed him off._

_Whatever happens next, you asked for it._

With an eerie silence, Gilbert placed the glass down on the wet kitchen side and was able to—in spite of his intoxication—stop any attempts that were made to free the limb he had claimed. Antonio’s heart had begun to beat faster. He needed to get Gilbert to bed and asleep as quickly as possible before something bad happened—something that one of them or both of them regretted. Gilbert, however, appeared to be having far too much fun to stop now.

“Gil,” Antonio said with as much calm as he could force into his voice, watching warily as those red eyes slowly turned and looked back at him. He recognised the glint they possessed. “I need you to let go of my wrist, please.”

“No.”

“Gilbert, I-I’m being serious.”

“As am I.”

He could feel the grip changing and adjusting, tightening by the smallest amount as the seconds ticked on. This was bad. This _could_ get _very_ bad. Antonio wanted Francis, Antonio wanted a sober Gilbert, and Antonio wanted to just go back to reading his book in the peace and quiet he thought he deserved—!

_What if this is what you deserve instead?_

Gilbert pulled him closer and Antonio tried to get him to stop—to let go—but with every single effort he made, the hand around his wrist seemed to tighten and the other would yank him closer much more roughly than before. He doesn’t mean it, he told himself as his skin was scratched and the seemingly massive gap between them got tinier and tinier; he doesn’t mean to do this and tomorrow, he’ll say sorry.

But did that make it okay?

A hand came to the back of his neck, and dragged him closer, fingers moving up through hairs and clamping onto whatever poor locks they could. Antonio was sure he would have let out some cry for help in that moment, but Gilbert’s lips sealed his own shut and he was prevented from saying anything. Every single alcoholic drink that the other had consumed abused is lips and his tongue together in wild unison, he could smell the smoke from foreign cigarettes lingering on his clothes, he could hear a no doubt growing arousal at this cruelly dominant display... And what could he possibly say about it?

Even the next day, after the entire fiasco that had followed that night, having to lure Gilbert to bed with the nauseating promises of all kinds of things that Antonio (thankfully) hadn’t had to deliver on entirely, his lips felt as though they had been sewn shut. Francis had come back at around midday to find that no one was up and about, and so he came into the bedroom to see that Antonio and Gilbert were on separate sides of the beds, pillows wedged between them, no explanation in sight. He never asked for one, either.

And, even then, _Gilbert_ had not asked what had happened either—he couldn’t even remember getting drunk, it seemed—and Antonio did not want to tell him and remind himself in the process.

And this, despite his best efforts, happened twice more over the next couple of months—each time when Francis was out and about—and Antonio found that, once more, he needed to confide in someone who he could trust to listen, be patient, and not judge him.

* * *

_November 2017_

“Again, Toni?”

“You know I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t need to speak to you…”

“This is the—” There was a pause, but whether it was intentional or not was debatable. “—seventh time you’ve called me over the last three months purely because something about your relationship doesn’t feel right.”

“And I’m fully aware of the fact, Fonso, but—”

“Don’t you think that maybe it’s just not meant to be?”

Antonio didn’t like those words leaving his brother’s mouth with such… Nonchalance. “No, I don’t.”

“You think you can make it work, do you?” Afonso responded, a hint of surprise in his tone, which only made his younger brother all the more impatient. “I feel like you’re just a broken record at this point, I’m not going to lie to you.”

“But you’re not going to listen, either?”

A huff came through the line, followed by a pause and hushed mumbles from his brother that he, unfortunately, was unable to interpret. “Call me in the morning once you’ve thought this through, okay? It’s too late for this—I’m tired, you’re tired, we’re all tired.”

“Right…”

And the phone call had gone on for no longer than that. Was it really the seventh time he had called his brother to make similar complaints? He hadn’t even realised—not really. It was late, he supposed, maybe calling back in the morning was a good idea. Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight because he was too tired, too emotionally drained.

Maybe his brother was right.

Maybe he _was_ a broken record.

Or maybe he was just broken.

* * *

_February 2018_

Antonio’s birthday had come around once more. The Bonnefoi family had insisted on hosting a party for him and they had delivered without a single ounce of disappointment filling any of the guests that turned up. It was a night to remember, filled with drinking and laughter and as much Spanish stuff as the family had been able to source, and it was almost entirely perfect.

Almost.

Because the one thing that Antonio had kept so quiet about over the last three years had just come back to haunt him on the very anniversary of one of the worst things he felt he would ever have to experience. And that thing’s name was Arthur.

Antonio was stood at the bar, ordering a drink for himself and his two companions (though he made sure that Gilbert’s contained significantly less alcohol than he had let on) amidst all of the loud voices and notes that filled the room, when one voice suddenly spoke above the rest. All it said was ‘hello’, but as soon as Antonio looked to see who it was, every other voice died and he couldn’t find his own amongst the fallen.

It was Arthur. Arthur, with a charming smile on his face that reminded him so much of their early days. Arthur, dressed in a smart-casual way that really, really suited him. Arthur, and all of the memories that he brought back with him to throw right back at the birthday boy all at once.

“How are you?” the Brit asked, leaning on the bar. All that Antonio could see was genuine interest, but that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable.

“Fine,” he answered simply. “You?”

“As good as I can be,” Arthur replied with a nod. He ordered a drink— _martini, as always_ —and decided that the conversation they were having was allowed to continue. “I haven’t seen you in a long while. Francis talks about you a lot, though.”

“Does he?” Antonio said, his drink in his hand, staring at the blood-red liquid distantly. Mm, sangria. “That surprises me, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not like we’re seeing each other or anything,” came the bitter yet sharp response.

Antonio picked up his glass and took some of the drink in his mouth, if only to avoid saying any words of malice to the man on his left, and he gave himself a moment to relax and calm down. He couldn’t do this. Arthur’s presence alone was messing with him, making him think of the problems he was currently facing in his relationship, the relationship he used to have before the new one came along, the good, the bad and the utterly hideous.

“As honest as ever, I see.”

“At least one of us is.”

“It’s been three years—have you not moved on, forgotten?” Arthur queried, a frown coming onto his features along with bewilderment. “Forgiven?”

Antonio shook his head with a short-lived laugh. “Too many things and people to forgive,” he replied. “And trust me, I _tried_ to forget, but some things are hard to erase from your mind.”

Something happened in that moment. They shared a look—a knowing green glance—and both of them came to give the faintest of smiles to the other. Healing, Antonio thought of it as. Maybe they could forget together and move on. Maybe this was his closure. Maybe this was his salvation, his ticket onto the straight and narrow. He hadn’t spoken to Arthur in three years, after all. He seemed different.

Francis and Gilbert soon appeared and claimed the drinks that Antonio had ordered for them, and they just as quickly whisked the brunette back away into the crowd so he could mingle and enjoy more than just the free drinks that evening.

But as they walked, Antonio couldn’t help but spare the blonde Brit a glance, and when their eyes met again, it felt as though something within him had been mended.

* * *

_March 2018_

It was Gilbert’s turn to be away this week. He had left the day before for Berlin, going to visit family with his younger brother in tow, leaving Antonio and Francis alone in the meantime. He had told himself off for even thinking it, but at first, Antonio was sort of glad for the break from having Gilbert around.

He hadn’t smoked any joints since Christmas and his heavy drinking had noticeably been restricted to the times he went out socialising with friends. Antonio hadn’t had to deal too often, therefore, with the German’s antics after a night out and had counted his blessings at the fact. No more scares, no more late nights trying to fend off frightful advances, no more dreading Gilbert’s return after a night out with Mathias, Alfred and Arthur (who was always sober after helping Gilbert get home, Antonio noticed, yet the other two, not so much).

But yes—now it was just him and his Frenchman, and a week of candlelit dinners and chic-flic films and completely over-the-top romantic gestures. Antonio had woken up to an empty bed, which had shocked him at first, until he had wandered out of the bedroom to find that Francis was watching attentively over pastries in the oven and that the entire main room of the flat carried a fresh, floral aroma that really brought Spring into their lives.

“Bonjour, mon amour,” Francis greeted him, rising and giving a still amazed Antonio a hug. “Did you sleep okay?”

Antonio put his arms around the blonde and hugged him back. “Let’s just say it was nice to not get kicked last night,” he replied.

“Gilbert?”

“I love him,” Antonio said as they pulled away from each other, “but he can be a pain in the ass.”

_In more ways than one._

“Well, this week is all about us, so you won’t have to worry about that sort of thing for a few days,” Francis assured him.

That was how it started, the sweetness, the kindness, the things that reminded Antonio of the months they had spent together as their own couple before they noticed the hole, and filled it with the wild, adventurous charisma of Gilbert. The entire week was a throwback. Film nights, cuddles under the blankets, hot chocolate, cooking together, dancing in the kitchen—that was exactly what they loved.

But throughout this week, there also seemed to be something new in the works that Antonio couldn’t seem to work out—he didn’t know why it had appeared or when—and it was just odd.

Antonio had actually told Francis one night about one of his run-ins with Gilbert. Perhaps that had been the trigger, he thought; perhaps having to envision the brunette on the sofa one night, dishevelled, tear-stained, a smashed bottle of alcohol on the carpeted floor had sparked something inside of Francis that had made him feel the need to suddenly put him in a bubble to protect him, to keep him safe from the dangers of the real world (not that he had ever enquired into the frequency of such an event, of course, and Antonio was not so willing to admit it on his own...).

“I need to go to the shop,” Antonio had said on the Tuesday morning. He had opened the almost empty fridge to a funny smell and it hadn’t taken long to find the culprit. “Ugh, the milk’s off, too…”

“Oh, I’ll go,” Francis had told him. “I needed to pop out anyway, I might as well get the shopping done as well.”

“But the supermarket is on the other side of town to where you need to go,” the Spaniard reasoned, not really seeing what the issue was.

“Nonsense!” was the reply, however. And of course, he smiled so innocently, too. “I have the car, and it’s cold outside. Stay inside, keep warm.”

It was a similar routine then on the Thursday two days later when they had missed a package delivery. Francis had insisted that he go and get it and that Antonio didn’t need to worry about it, and the brunette hadn’t had the energy to fight it that afternoon, so he had surrendered almost immediately.

In fact, it was even in the small things. Francis made the drinks. Francis carried the plates to the dinner table. Francis collected the post. Francis always asked Antonio if he wanted him to walk to work with him, as if he would be robbed or assaulted on the way, and in all fairness it was the only time that week when Antonio had been able to do something for himself that didn’t involve fucking personal hygiene!

_Love-making._

Not every night, but every other night. Whether in the bed or on the couch as the film continued to play in the background; gentle hands, smooth skin, and all for Antonio. Francis always made sure he was okay, that he was comfortable, that he was enjoying their activities, and if he seemed to be doing anything but, he would stop and ask how to make it better—more fun.

Antonio had almost hit him over the head once when he stopped without warning, however. If you’re going to do it ( _Do me._ ) then do it and don’t stop because you honestly just kill the fucking mood when you decide that, actually, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying what we’re doing _despite the fact that he is calling your name, hands all over you, trying to kiss you back through the bliss that was numbing his entire being._

By the time Gilbert had returned, Antonio was glad for it.

But it didn’t even end with Gilbert’s return to the apartment; the doting and the ‘I’ll do it for you!’ attitude had not ceased, and when Gilbert asked what was up with Francis and his constant doting— _What happened while I was gone?—_ Antonio could only shrug and deny he had any knowledge. He was stuck between lovers of two different kinds, now...

He lived with that for months—months of being treated like an unable child—a toddler—and on occasional nights, like a doormat—various nights as a body pillow (or other things)—and it was becoming harder and harder as the time went on.

And he would speak to Lovino, to Afonso and Maximo and Emma and Lars but no one understood because they didn’t take the time to understand, they didn’t want to understand, and they just didn’t care.

_No one does. No one ever will. When will you learn to accept that?_

I think I already have, he concluded one cold, silent night. I think I truly have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a comment, lemme know what ya think about this very i n t e r e s t i n g trio and in particular, Gilbert.  
> Or any of them, in all fairness - they're all rather intriguing characters in a way - I just want this pseudo-human-interaction pleeeeaaase...
> 
> Spanish exam went worse-than-expected-but-not-horrendous this morning. I have Italian speaking in 9 hours and here I am, delivering you some wonderful angst. Prego :'3
> 
> Until next time! (Where we entire the final phase of the narrative, and Toni may just find his feet...)


	9. One Set of Scales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio begins to confront his demons.
> 
> His demons are all mortified by what happens next.

_Back in the Present Day..._

This was the third time now that Antonio woke up, startled to find himself where he was out of either confusion or panic, but this was, at least, the first time where he did not feel a sense of urgency about moving. He was in the master bedroom, he knew that much very well, and that surely meant he was safe for now. Arthur was nowhere in sight, nowhere to be heard (other than in his head) and he felt at peace.

That was, until he moved onto his side with a small smile on his face and was subsequently hit in the face by one of the big pillows. Now _that…_ That was a shock to his system of another kind.

With a start, Antonio reopened his eyes to see who had so rudely attacked him, only to be met by what he had at first thought a dream. Because all his tired, blurred vision saw was a rough reflection of himself—only, the reflection was sat on a chair and appeared to have its arms crossed. And its hair was notably longer than Antonio’s, come to think of it. And why was it muttering something in a language that the Spaniard did not recognise as his own, nor as English? What—

He paled.

It seemed his big brother had decided to pay him a visit, straight out of his nightmares.

“So you _are_ awake, then,” Afonso remarked, a hint of ire in his tone and an unimpressed look on his face.

“Nice to see you too,” was all that Antonio could bring himself to say.

“It’s not a mutual feeling, I can assure you, Toni.” He watched his brother’s fingers rap against his arm, impatient and domineering. “What the heck is up with you at the moment, eh?”

Antonio blinked. “What do you mean—?”

“You’re all over the place! You go quiet, you vanish without a word and nearly give Francis a heart-attack, and then you act as though nothing happened!” his brother cried, albeit, keeping it fairly quiet and private between only themselves.

It is here that it should be made clear that Antonio and Afonso were, in fact, half-brothers. Afonso’s mother had left him alone and defenceless in the arms of a heartbroken father, whose life was only mended upon meeting the woman who helped him raise Afonso until he was three, before providing her newly-wedded husband with their own son. That was Antonio. And they had always been a close family unit, but it seemed that somewhere along the line, something had caused the brothers’ relationship to become a little more tempestuous.

Antonio had, at times, wondered if there was an element of envy about it. As he had entered into his teen years, it had become clearer that Afonso was not always fond of the way Antonio was doted on by both parents much more regularly. Not that Afonso wanted to be so dependent, either, he had also established, but it seemed that the older brother no longer felt that they were equals and hated it. Afonso would deny it, now. But Antonio worried that it was still there, still simmering away.

“Why are you here?” the younger therefore asked, giving the other a questioning look. “Why did you bother coming if all you want to do is bite my head off?”

His thoughts wandered back to words that he had remembered at some point whilst he slept, the words of hate that had sprouted from the very same mouth that was currently scolding him and reprimanding him. _He’s useless. He honestly doesn’t think._ They were poisonous inside his head, but Antonio did not try to fight them away like he did the voices. These words would empower him, he vowed. He would use them as fuel for the fire in his weakened soul. Yes—!

“I’m here because I fucking _care_ , you—”

“Bullshit!” Antonio suddenly called out, stunning his brother into silence. The fire began to grow. “You care, do you? You care _so much_ then when I ask to speak to you, or to see you, or to give me advice, you turn me away within a heartbeat?”

This was it. The words were finding their own way, their own sequence, and they were the ones in control now. The voices spoke to him, but now, their hatred had been redirected and Antonio seemed to be finding his feet. Finding his own voice. Unleashing every single thing that he had been piled with over the last four years of his life and throwing back at the cruel, dark world.

“Toni, you don’t—”

“ _Don’t tell me I don’t understand,_ ” the words poured out, acidic and heavy. “You don’t help. You think you do—you think you _try_ —but you and all the others only make it a million times worse! All of you—you’ve done this to me!”

The bedroom door suddenly flung open and Gilbert burst into the room, no doubt keen to find out what all the commotion was about. Antonio did not look away from his brother, who in turn had shifted to see who had interrupted them, and the younger brother maintained such a damning glare that Afonso appeared uncomfortable when he turned back around to be faced by it so fiercely. Disappointment was all that came from it. Guilt was all he should have felt.

“I think it’s best you take a break,” Gilbert suggested, talking to the elder brother. “He still needs rest, he’s had a tough time—”

“ _Don’t mother me_ …”

Gilbert blinked, astounded, and he looked then to Antonio who had grown much bolder in his dominance over his own bloodline. “I’m not mothering _anyone_ ,” he asserted. “I’m just asking your brother to leave before we get a complaint from the neighbours about the noise, again.”

“Again?” Afonso queried.

“Never you mind,” the albino responded in a mix of awkwardness and defensiveness. “Come on, just for a little while. I think Francis could do with some different company.”

There was no resistance from the man born of a Portuguese mother, who spoke Portuguese more readily than any other language, who adopted the Portuguese traditions over the Spanish ones he had been raised with, and— God, it was at times like this when Antonio wondered what actually made them brothers besides the fact that they had the same father, the same last name. They were so different. And quite clearly, Afonso was not _nearly_ as fucked up in the head, the proud owner of a generally stable and happy relationship to top it all off.

Antonio gave a quiet groan of anguish as his brother got up to leave, rolling back onto his side with an inner tantrum of a spoilt child. Deep down, however, he knew he had acted completely unorthodox and, to put it bluntly, rude. There had been no need to lash out at Afonso: he was no more in the wrong than anyone else in the vicinity. But what remained of Antonio’s pride at this point had become a monster living inside of him, desperate to protect itself. An apology would come. It would just take a while to form.

The door to the bedroom shut, and for a moment, the brunette thought he was alone. But then he felt a new weight on the mattress next to him, and his hope was crushed. Gilbert had not left the room.

“So then, Sleeping Beauty—” There was something bittersweet about the nickname in that moment, and Antonio’s heart fluttered for just a millisecond. “—do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

Oh, he minded very much, his pride roared. “Nothing important,” he mumbled.

“Nothing, huh? Is that so?” Gilbert replied, but the incredulity in his voice was as clear as day. “It didn’t sound like nothing, and I’m fairly sure that the neighbours would agree with me.”

“Just go away…”

“Why?”

“I need to be left alone…”

“Why?”

“I need peace and quiet…”

“Why?”

“So I can plot your murder,” Antonio said bitterly, disliking the game that Gilbert was trying to play.

Gilbert, on the other hand, must’ve found some sort of amusement in the strange declaration and utilised it for his own personal gain. His hand came to rest on Antonio’s shoulder, reminding him of his unwanted presence, and his voice morphed from being irritating and intrusive to quiet and sincere.

“Okay, but… Did I do something to deserve being murdered by you?”

The question struck Antonio hard.

Had he?

No, he thought. Not really. There had been ups and downs— _remember the drinking, the smoking, the times he scared you, did things that he shouldn’t, did things you didn’t want—_ but that was perfectly normal as far as he was aware. Gilbert was going through tough times. Sure, he didn’t know what specifically because no one ever spoke about it under their cursed roof, but Antonio knew there was something afoot. Something bad. Something that was pulling the puppet strings.

_Stop defending him._

“No,” Antonio said, though it came out no louder than a whisper. He had no clue if he was answering Gilbert or the voice in his head, however. Maybe it was both.

“…Didn’t I?”

What was he looking for, Antonio asked himself, what did Gilbert want him to say? Did he want him to confirm that he had done nothing wrong, that Gilbert was unflawed in every single way, that he was a fucking gem, an angel, the best thing in his life alongside Francis and the small fraction of his sanity that remained?

Or did he want him to rip into him and tear him apart—a rabid dog locking its jaw on a bystander’s leg—a bear with its claws out and freshly whet—a raging bull that would not be stopped for anything by anyone—bloodlust in his eyes? Antonio could deliver on that front. The fire was still there inside of him, begging to be fed, begging to be released again. He could deliver, he repeated in his head, and he would.

“I want you to be honest with me,” Gilbert began at some point or other, “and I want you to tell me everything that is going on in your head—”

“You’ve been smoking.”

“—because I don’t think you can last much longer.”

Antonio paused, his silence having purpose as tension built. He glared at the same spot on the wall and imagined he was burning a messy hole in Gilbert’s head. “Can’t I?” he questioned. “I thought I was doing okay.”

“Doing okay?” the albino repeated. “What do you mean—”

“I’ve been managing for quite a while. I’m sure a little longer won’t do any harm.”

At that, it was a fright to suddenly be jerked one way and find himself being towered over. It harked back to those terrible nights, the ones where he cried and had panic attacks and had to hold himself together when an intoxicated Gilbert had become too much to handle, in fact. But this time, Antonio wasn’t going to cower. He wasn’t going to submit to anything, he wasn’t to let himself be walked over, he wasn’t going to played with like a fucking toy!

“Toni, you’re freaking both of us out—!”

But Antonio had already pushed with an unknown strength against Gilbert and had forced him off with a shove. Gilbert stumbled back onto the bed, catching himself on his hands as he stared disbelievingly at a risen Spaniard who looked right back at him, but with contempt rather than concern. If he wanted to be freaked out, then it was only just beginning…

“I can’t see why,” the brunette said lowly, “it’s not like anything has changed. It’s not like I’m any different to how I was a month ago. Six months. A year, even!”

“What do you mean, _you’re not different,_ ” Gilbert retaliated. His voice had gone louder to try and fight Antonio’s, but the latter knew that volume would not defeat truth, “I can’t remember a time when you ever collapsed in the fucking bathtub or had what looked like a seizure on the sofa!” Ha! “Heck, when the last time you even shouted at your own brother?”

“ _Half-brother,_ ” Antonio corrected, “and I’m not surprised that you don’t remember very much, to be honest, Gilbert. That’s what happens when you submerge yourself in alcohol and weed.”

“That’s not what this is about and you know it!”

“So what _is_ it about, huh? You’re worried about me—we all are, apparently—but have you ever asked yourself what could be wrong?”

Antonio was seething. It was an effort to keep it all under control now, but at the same time, there was something so attractive and alluring about having the power over another person, he didn’t _want_ to stop. He was being driven on by something that had been dormant for such a long time, harnessing its power, and the time had come to exert. To make them understand. To make them see that he was not weak, that he was not pathetic, and that he was no child. He was, if anything, the one who held all the cards, now.

“Can’t you remember?” he went on, eyes boring into Gilbert’s skull. “Can’t you remember the nights you went out, drank your sorrows away and then came home to give me my own? Can’t you remember the threats, the shouting, the— the crap _you_ did, and the things _I_ had to do to get you to bed so you weren’t a danger to anyone?”

A month ago, he wouldn’t have thought it possible that Gilbert could pale, yet there they were and there _he_ was, guilt stealing away what little pigment remained in his skin. It was empowering. He lusted for this feeling of superiority, of having the monopoly. Gilbert looked very uncomfortable now, and ashamed of the things he had done—whether he remembered them or not.

Antonio was glad, and yet, Gilbert seemed unwilling to acknowledge the error of his ways:

“I don’t— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the German defended.

“No?”

“…no.”

“You should.”

“Antonio, please—”

“No, shut up,” the Spaniard demanded, eyes narrowing. The fire burned in his veins. He edged towards to Gilbert, crawling across the misplaced bedsheets, a cheetah on the hunt in the long grass for its petrified prey. “I want you to know,” he said. “I want you to know everything you did— _everything you made me do_ —and I want you to understand just one single thing.”

Silence.

Antonio was on top of him now. Their eyes were level and they stared at their coloured counterparts—one with transparency and the other with translucence. The albino was quite evidently disturbed. He was quite evidently anxious about what was going to come. It was the wicked scent of fear that filled the air—that drifted up Spanish nostrils—and the buzz it provided made bodies shift.

A heart was pounding somewhere, seeking freedom from its cage, but it did not belong to Antonio. It was a thrill to see the panic in someone else rather than his own reflection for once. It was satisfying on several levels, but most of all, there was nothing better than looking in on what could quite easily have been a scene some weeks or months before and finding the roles had been reversed. He moved down, closer to that paler skin, and he after perching himself right on top of Gilbert’s second brain (because, he thought bitterly, it was all he thought with at times) his mouth found itself at the shell of his ear, whispering:

“ _I won’t ever forgive you._ ”

For the second time, the door flew open that afternoon and Afonso had returned like it was the Second Coming. Antonio paid him no attention, he only stared down at the puddle underneath him. He only stared. Even as his brother pulled him off with a tight grip and Francis came in, tending to a speechless Gilbert, there was nothing else he could do than prove to Gilbert that those words were written in stone.

“Gil, what’s wrong,” the blonde fussed, giving a brief glance at the lookalikes, “what happened?”

Gilbert only looked at Antonio. “Take that back. _Please_ …”

Antonio only began to laugh. “Take what back, hmm?”

Afonso only tightened his grip. “Toni, I swear to God—”

Francis only knew distress. “Someone, tell me what’s going on!”

“Antonio, you don’t—” Gilbert paused, unable to speak, lost for the words he felt would help him. “You don’t mean that…”

“Oh, I really think I do, you know.” There was an almost crazed look in his once gentle green eyes, but that was what these people had done to him. His true colours were flying and everything was stained red. “And for the first time in a while.”

“No. No, you don’t—”

The brunette broke away from the grasp of his older sibling and marched towards a pleading, desperate Gilbert. Each step inflated his ego, each step shook the Earth. Francis stood between them hastily, trying to intervene, but Antonio only turned his dark gaze to the blonde who remained still but silent.

“The scars can speak for me, if you don’t believe my mouth,” he said over Francis’ shoulder. Gilbert seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“N-No,” he protested, resigned. “No, y-you—”

“Three weeks ago,” Antonio interrupted, however, “you came back home late one night with a lit joint in your hand. Francis was out. It was just me in the flat.”

“No, I-I swear—!”

“I hated the smell—always have—and I asked you to put it out.”

“Toni, _p-please_ —”

“And you did.”

“Gilbert, what did you—”

“Antonio, stop—!”

The hem of a t-shirt was grabbed and slowly (teasingly) hoisted up, and Antonio dared to smile. He even bit his lip, playing coy and innocent. “You put it out Gilbert,” he reiterated, “after you decided that I would be the best ashtray in the area.”

The room flooded with a terrible silence. They either didn’t know what to say, couldn’t speak, or simply chose not to for various reasons. Shock and horror was at the top of the list, a devilish duo, of course. Gilbert was realising just how much of a monster he had been, Francis seemed to be realising just one of the monsters that lived under their roof, and Afonso was hopefully realising how much of a dick he had been when dismissing Antonio’s cries that monsters were out to get him—and they were in his bed rather than under it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My boy has rediscovered his fire, yayyyy!!
> 
> Sorry this took so long to get out, Chapter 11 had me stumped and I couldn't finish it at all. However, I believe that Chapter 12 will be the final chapter, and maybe we'll see a mini-Epilogue (depends how I feel..) at the end. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy this and relish in Antonio's empowerment, but also, tell me what you think about his black-out. It seems he forgot some very important information, and it kinda leaves me wondering if it's ever happened before. Hehe, not that you'll ever find out :'3
> 
> What do you make of Gilbert in this chapter, however? Not quite the same bastard as he was before, hm? Discuss!
> 
> And what about Afonso? What do you guys make of him as an older brother? I'm intriiiigued by these things~
> 
> Also also also, point out any pesky spelling mistakes if you spot them (it's so early in the morning rn, I'm too tired to do another check) and until next time, DISFRUTAD <3


	10. Fix Me, I Beg Of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio struggles to fight the darkness inside of him and around him, but the fire still exists and it won't be put out any time soon.
> 
> The consequences?
> 
> War.

“And _you,_ ” Antonio said, veins oozing with magma as he turned to Francis, who was still recovering from the previous revelation. “You need to stop being so fucking condescending.”

“What—” Francis stuttered and stumbled over powerless words. “What do you mean?”

“You know _exactly_ what I mean; the way you treat me like I don’t know, like I’m some poor, orphaned child that you need to keep safe in a little box and bubble-wrap,” the Spaniard snapped—spat. “It’s like I’m made of china! Glass! Only, no one is allowed to touch me apart from you two!”

“Antonio, I had no idea—”

“Of course you did! In fact, you all knew, somewhere deep down, that you’ve been doing something wrong over the past how many months? A-And he we all are!” he cried: “United at last!”

A hand placed itself on his shoulder, gentle and soft, but Antonio did not turn to look at his brother, even as he spoke. His heart was too full of spite, darkness… The black ink had filtered through his skin back in the bathtub and now it was covering every single inch of his insides—his heart was naught but cold.

“Toni,” Afonso said calmly, “I get that some bad stuff has clearly happened, but… You need to sit down and breathe, okay?”

“Breathe,” the younger sibling mocked, however, “ _breathe, breathe, breathe—_ I’ve been unable to breathe independently for the past four and a half years of my life, Fonso.” He glanced sharply at his brother. “Don’t get your hopes up so easily.”

“No, you don’t understand—I’m being serious, now. You’re shaking.”

He was… What? Antonio’s brows furrowed as confusion weaved itself into them, seeking some sort of confirmation that he had heard correctly—because it was such an absurd thing to say, of course!—and his brother gave him a wary nod. _What?_ Antonio’s eyes drifted with a similar caution down to his hands and, oh, how utterly pitiful it was, to see that despite feeling so in control he was no more together than he had been hours before. He had to force a sob to stay in his throat.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to him, not now, not after he had done so well! Why? Why did this keep happening to him? Why did his mettle crumble and flake with such ease? Why couldn’t he be strong, like his father, or fierce, like his mother? He couldn’t be independent, like his brother. He couldn’t be confident, like Gilbert. He couldn’t be relaxed, like Francis…

And he found himself suddenly asking, what did it mean to be Antonio?

_It means being a victim. A pathetic, helpless, willing victim._

He clenched his hands tight and felt how his breath caught in his lungs, in his windpipe, in the air—it wracked his body and as he stared at his whitening knuckles, a new feeling came to him. Not an emotion, but a physical feeling that he was rather familiar with these days: tears. Antonio was starting to cry, but he couldn’t—he had to be strong—he couldn’t do this—this was embarrassing—he was being weak—what kind of man was he—he couldn’t think—he couldn’t hear—

It felt as though hands were all over him within seconds, grabbing and touching and rubbing and clawing at every inch of skin they could get their hands on, mercilessly and assertively. No. No, no, his resolve was crumbling. The fire was being doused. The hands were stealing his power, they were stealing his strength! Even so, the ink remained in his heart. It had nothing to fuel, sure, but it was just as potent on its own.

And now, Antonio wasn’t sure what scared him more: the foreign hands or his own black heart.

At some point, he gained sense and a fraction of control over everything that was happening, only to find himself sat on the edge of the master bed with a headache. Afonso was on his left, saying words he couldn’t understand, and Francis was on his right, holding his hand and trying to keep him upright. Gilbert was… Where was Gilbert? Where had he gone? _Why_ had he gone? Something inside Antonio yearned for the cold touch—a hug would be perfect—of his German partner, yet something told him ‘no’… But why?

“—erything okay?”

He blinked, blurred vision presenting him with Francis’ blonde hair. “Hmm…?”

“Gosh, it really isn’t,” the Frenchman mumbled to himself. A hand went to Antonio’s forehead, but it was lamely pushed away. “Do you feel sick or anything?”

Antonio shook his head in defiance, but all that did was aggravate whatever demon was pounding against the walls of his skull, trying to escape, and cause him to wince in pain. “My head,” he managed to say, albeit quietly. “What happened?”

“Well,” his brother, his voice quieter for Antonio’s own sake, he believed, “you zoned out for about a minute, and…” He paused, but why? Why were people doing the things they were doing?! “You passed out.”

“W-What…?”

“I barely managed to catch you, but you were out for about five or six minutes,” Afonso finished. “We had to get you onto the bed, so Francis gave me a hand.”

“And Gilbert?” Antonio asked expectantly.

“Ran out of the room just before you collapsed,” the blonde explained, though, he said it slowly to the Spaniard’s bewilderment, as though holding something back. “I think a reality check hit him very hard…”

“I hope he’s okay…”

“Don’t.”

Antonio looked to his brother, his frown remaining knitted firmly in place. “Why not?” he questioned. “I’m allowed to worry, aren’t I—?”

“Not about Gilbert,” was the stern reply.

Francis tried to jump in: “But I’m sure—”

He was silenced by a protective older sibling.

But he didn’t understand: what had happened? What was wrong with Gilbert? Why did his brother not want him to worry about him? God, he was so confused and his head only throbbed more as he tried to think and remember—what happened before he collapsed? Antonio eventually caved and gave a tired, redundant sigh, feeling the energy ooze out of his body all at once, but he was still fervently frustrated at his in ability to think properly.

“He’s made his decision,” Afonso said, not breaking eye contact with Francis for the time being, “and that’s that.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Antonio said—implored. “What’s happened?”

His brother shifted his gaze to him and the look he received… Afonso was saddened by something, he was feeling sorry for Antonio because of something, he was giving him a look that their father would wear whenever one of them hurt themselves (usually consisting of Antonio running into something, he thought, bittersweet).

“Toni,” he said gravely, “what’s the last thing you remember?”

A frown appeared once more on his features. “I don’t— I—”

He had to think— _think, Toni, think!_ —and think hard. He didn’t remember being in the bedroom. He didn’t remember being in the flat. He didn’t remember seeing his brother ever since the two weeks before, nor did he remember seeing Francis— And when had it become day? Antonio glanced out of the window and remembered stars, a cold night made warm…

“I was with Arthur,” he mumbled, trying to piece together why he had been there, when, and what day of the week it was.

“Arthur?” Francis repeated, a hint of uncertainty and shock, perhaps, in his voice. His hand was on Antonio’s shoulder, though Antonio wasn’t sure who he was trying to comfort. “Why were you with Arthur? When?”

Antonio shook his head. “I—We—”

The night flashed in his mind. Tiredness, frustration, and an overbearing silence over a lukewarm dinner. Unbearable. Suffocating. Francis had walked away at some point, Gilbert had—Gilbert had said something that had— His chest hurt and tightened and twisted, and Antonio turned to Francis, disbelief and indignation in his eyes.

“We had an argument,” he told them. Francis’ eyes widened ever so slightly, but there was recognition in what he’d said. “We— You and Gil, you wouldn’t talk, you wouldn’t— You walked away, he got angry— I—” Breathe, he reminded himself, breathe! “I couldn’t stay, I-I tried to speak to someone and—” _Oh God, what have we done?_ “Arthur was the only one who would listen to me…”

Antonio was struggling to comprehend what he’d just said, his own shock and alarm blurring the world around him. He heard muffled voices being raised— _you drove him away!_ — _you let him go to Arthur, of all people!—_ but he was too busy trying to not be sick, he paid them little mind in comparison.

“What happened while you were with Arthur, Toni?” Francis asked him. His voice sounded too harsh, too loud…

“I-I don’t…”

_You can’t deny that it was fun,_ Arthur’s ghost told him. _You can’t tell me that you didn’t enjoy any of it._

“We—”

“Did he hurt you?”

Antonio blinked. “ _What?_ ”

“Did he hurt you,” Francis repeated, “or did he touch you in any way?”

“No, he— He didn’t _hurt_ me,” Antonio answered with a growing irritancy towards the blonde. “Why would he? We just—”

“Because he has before!”

“—had sex, I—”

Peace of one kind filled the room, but in reality, a war had just surrounded them all. Friendly fire and collateral damage would be no strangers on the battlefield, now.

“You had sex?” Francis eventually said.

Yet Antonio was focused other things. “What do you mean, ‘he has before’?”

“You tell me, you broke up with him for a reason,” the Frenchman retorted. Antonio recognised a small look of disgust in the back of his eyes and his heart fell to the floor. “Do you remember that night? When I picked you up at the bus-stop? You cried all night.”

“That was— That was because—!”

“I could see the marks, Toni. The bruises, the scratches,” the blonde continued, however, relentless and merciless. “Just like some of the ones you have now.”

“Francis, I—”

“On your neck? A hickey, is it?”

No, no, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Francis was turning the tables, he was— He was making Arthur out to be the bad guy here when it was Francis and Gilbert that had steered him right into Arthur’s arms! This wasn’t fair! They couldn’t— They couldn’t just attack him like this and not admit their own transgressions!

“L-Like you’re so perfect!” the Spaniard threw back, twice as loud, twice as ferocious. “You never talk to me when you’re down, and when I ask, well— Look what happens! _You_ did this! You and Gilbert both did this to me— To yourselves!”

“Antonio, that’s enough—”

He pushed his brother away with a half-hearted shove. “You’re no better,” he reminded Afonso, before returning his attention to the blonde who needed a reality check as well.

Because now he could remember. He remembered why Gilbert had vanished, he could remember what he had said to remind Gilbert of his mistakes—the ones that stained Antonio’s skin and mind—and he remembered that Francis, too, needed to be taught a lesson.

“Why have we never been able to talk in this place, huh?” he questioned. Really—he wanted to know! “No one talks about their problems—no one is _allowed_ to talk about their problems—and that is just another problem we can add to the pile!”

“You don’t talk either—”

“I never get the chance! And even then,” Antonio pressed on, his energy and fire coming back with a vengeance, “I try to go to other people—to Afonso, to Lovino—and they turn me away as well!”

“So you’re in the wrong, too?” Francis said to Afonso, who appeared to be feeling just as guilty and awkward in these latest developments.

“We all are,” the younger of the Iberians replied, however, beating his brother to it. “You don’t talk, he doesn’t listen, and I find solace in other people’s arms.” Antonio gave a short laugh. “You know, the only reason that you picked me up that night was because he told me to leave. I pretended to— To have fallen in love with you so that I could get away. So that I could escape.”

“…I’m so sorry, I— I didn’t know…”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Antonio said; “I didn’t know that I had escaped one prison to find myself in another.”

A door went somewhere else in the flat, slamming shut as someone left the room, and everyone knew it as Gilbert. Antonio made a move for the living room, Francis powerless to stop him and Afonso too slow to hold him back. They tried to call him back, but he was already so far away mentally, there was no stopping him. He was a bull in the streets of San Fermin, and he would stop for no man.

“J-Just leave him be!”

“No.”

“He needs fresh air, please, just— Give him five minutes!”

“So _what_?” Antonio said, turning sharply to look at Francis who almost walked right into him in his haste. “So he can light a fresh one, fog his system even more?”

“N-No, but—”

“So he can pop down the road to the pub and get wasted on vodka shots?”

“Anton—”

“So he can come back here with a crown on his head and do whatever the fuck he wants to _who_ he wants?”

Francis could only maintain his look of horror, and Antonio’s face gave away nothing other than the poisonous hatred that burned in his core for the German, wherever he had fled to. He had once loved Gilbert, he reminded himself, but he had lost that trust of his own accord. And now it would take a miracle for him to ever win it back.

“You’re lucky, you know…” he said to the blonde. “I— I can honestly say that I’m relieved you were never here to witness any of the crap he pulled, but… Francis…” Air puffed heavily from his nostrils. “I don’t see why I had to deal with it all on my own, either…”

“You could have said,” Francis replied, guilt-ridden but also confused. “You could have told me—do you remember that night I came back early? You could have told me everything that had ever happened, but you didn’t. Mon lapin, I _tried_ —”

“And the day after?”

Francis blinked. “W-What?”

“And what about the day afterwards?” Antonio reiterated. “We woke up together in the spare bed. You didn’t ask why. You only told me that everything would be fine, that we would sort this out. But have we, Francis?” he questioned with incredulity in his eyes. “Have we done _anything_ to try and fix this shitty situation? I’m not a saint—I’m not an angel—so why the hell can’t any of you see that I— I just c-can’t do this on my— own?!”

He felt arms wrap around him and he buried his reddening face into Francis’ shoulder, unable to keep the floodgates shut any longer. His pride was shattered, as was his dignity, and Antonio could only replace his anger with the anguish he had stored away for so long in the form of warm tears wetting the Frenchman’s shirt.

He couldn’t stay mad at them. He couldn’t hate them forever. He loved them too much, he wanted so desperately to keep on loving them despite all of their flaws…

“I’m so sorry,” Francis’ voice whispered to him.

Their bodies found a gentle, lulling rhythm as they ever so slightly rocked some side to side in an attempt at consolation, and Antonio rest his head on Francis’ shoulder so that he could see the world once more, tear-stained and in its base form. Afonso looked at him with sympathy, yet, his crossed arms and soft frown also made the younger sibling feel like he was being looked down on.

His brother didn’t approve.

He had run back into arms without even a second glance, seeking comfort and normality.

That was what addicts did, wasn’t it? Went back to whatever made them feel normal, feel human— _feel_ at all—without a single other thought trying to tell them it was wrong? He was an addict, too, then. How could he not be? Antonio held on just a little bit tighter to his Frenchie but his eyes did not part from Afonso, making a silent promise that he would sort all of this out. That he would do what would be best, no matter how absurd or ridiculous the idea…

“I think we need to sit down,” the blonde said eventually, breaking the suffocating silence that had fallen upon the entire suburb, “all of us together, and talk this through like adults.”

Antonio could only give him a hum in reply—one of affirmation and compliance.

“And we need to be honest with each other about everything, yes? No secrets,” he added.

“No secrets,” Antonio quietly repeated.

They pulled away from each other and shared a look that Antonio himself couldn’t properly read, and he accepted the chaste kiss on his forehead without batting an eyelid before sitting down without a word on the nearest sofa.

* * *

Francis wasn’t sure how to tell him—how to reassure him that, actually, he wasn’t going through this on his own. He didn’t want to appear as though he was making the situation about himself but at the same time he refused to believe that Gilbert possessed a single bad bone in his body or that he did this because of some base, deep, horrid need.

Gilbert was a terrible drunk. It had been hard to accept after that night when he found Antonio amongst the aftermath and debris of one of the German’s apparently ‘ _more frequent than you think_ ’ episodes. And then, seeing the way that Antonio couldn’t seem to bring himself to say anything but apologies and small bits of Spanish that he didn’t understand—it only made Francis hurt even more.

And of course, the brunette was right to question why he had never asked in the morning what had happened, but that was the curse of being Francis; lingering on the bad—the past—was not something he did so with ease, and he had thought it was in Antonio’s best interests to move on as well. He didn’t want to remind him of the night before. He wanted him, instead, to focus on the good—the present—and just staying close to Francis, safe in his arms.

Now, Antonio didn’t know it, but Francis had not been the best at keeping his feelings about these goings-on bottled up. He couldn’t do it. As he sat down on the same sofa as Antonio and registered the distant look, he couldn’t even comprehend how _he_ had done it. Someone who used to be full of life and joy and radiance…

Arthur had started it, Gilbert had continued it, and Francis couldn’t help but feel as though he had allowed it.

One day, soon after that night in the spare bedroom, Francis had spoken to Gilbert about what had happened in as indirect a way as possible. He didn’t want to provoke anything, especially not any more animosity or fear in the flat, but when he asked, _do you think everything’s okay with Toni?_ the last thing he had expected was to receive an uninterested (hungover) grunt.

And even more so, when he demanded a coherent answer, he had not expected to be dodging a near-perfectly aimed punch.

Something different was seen in Gilbert that lonely afternoon. Francis did not pursue him much further beyond that, but they were there in the occasional glances after one beer too many—the threats, the predator behind the bloodied eyes—and he soon came to understand that silence was the only thing that made it seem normal.

So, no, he had never been physically hurt or psychologically damaged—used as an ashtray or a punching bag—but by God, did Francis know what it was to feel like prey in the red eyes of a ferocious animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who is back from Barcelonaaaaa!~
> 
> Sorry this legit took three weeks to get out. I've been trying to get Chapter Eleven on point and I gotsta say, writing the end of it tonight (at last!) brought me to actual tears. Like damn... Two chapters left after this, guys, and then we're done. And Antonio can have a break!
> 
> (You know, for a day or two...)
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter and how this is all going to go down in the next one, where everything comes to its ultimate climax. Oof! And point out any spelling mistakes - I am far too tired to check for myself, I just wanna give you guys the content!
> 
> And then, I ask: how is everyone's Christmas going? Work have decided I'm working the evening of Christmas Eve so I'm feeling great. Anyone else got any fun plans like me? :'3
> 
> Until next time, ciao ciao! <3


	11. The Lonely Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh, but what will Antonio make it?
> 
> And how will he cope?

They all sat or stood in silence as Francis put down the phone and confirmed that Gilbert had been coerced into returning to the flat, some fifteen minutes after having initially left, and the air grew thick in Antonio’s lungs. Had the black spread there, too, he wondered?

“What are you going to say?” Afonso questioned from the background, behind where the others sat from where he leant against the kitchen counter (his arms no doubt folded).

“I don’t know,” Francis replied.

“I’ve said my bit already,” Antonio reminded them both. “He knows what I think of him…”

“I want to hit him…”

“That’s not a good idea, Afonso.”

“It would be the most proactive he’s been so far,” the younger brother commented under his breath, however, bringing back the terrible silence.

Of course he loved his brother. Afonso, you would be surprised to hear, had been a particularly caring older sibling where relationships had not been involved, and warm and accommodating. He had supported Antonio’s decision to stay with the small bookshop despite the minimal pay. He had supported Antonio’s decision to give their parents the most extravagant and Iberian wedding anniversary possible the previous summer. He had even supported Antonio’s decision to try and be a vegetarian—a feat which unsurprisingly lasted six days—before, of course, teasing him about the failed attempt.

So, yes, Antonio loved Afonso. He just wished the bastard didn’t pick his moments as and when he felt like it or could be bothered to fulfil his role as older brother.

But… The same went for a certain someone else, come to think of it.

A best friend was meant to be there for you unconditionally through the good times and the bad, right? Lovino was like Afonso in his fickleness—there for the good and the beautiful but the bad and the ugly could stay far away, thank you very much! No, that just wasn’t fair. You didn’t get to pick and choose. That was the whole point—the spontaneity of the friendship.

Antonio was there when the Vargas brothers argued, when Lovino had pissed off Feliciano’s own boyfriend, when Lovino lost his job, when he wanted someone to rant to and watch a film with and hide under blankets with when the movie had become too scary for him to handle on his own.

Lovino should have been there for him, too, he had thus decided, but what better time to make up for it than right now, right there, bang in the middle of the war’s key battle?

“Can I borrow someone’s phone?” the Spaniard asked.

“What for?” the Frenchman responded.

“Nothing that makes sense,” the Portuguese brother remarked, though, to himself.

“There’s a certain Italian I want to call,” Antonio relayed, ignorant. “Summon, really.”

“ _Summon?_ ”

“Like a demon or to court,” the youngest in the room reiterated for the sake of his apparently inept brother as Francis handed him his mobile with little to no resistance. “Either way, I’m summoning our beloved Lovi, and he’ll come if he knows what’s good for him...”

He didn’t really like the way his own voice sounded anymore. Was that the black? Had it stolen his voice, had it still got control over him to such an extent? Antonio found himself blocking out the thoughts and instead, searched for Lovino’s name on Francis’ contacts list. He needed to do this. He needed to call him and set the record straight.

Surprisingly, the phone only rang four times before he answered.

“The fuck do you want, Francis?”

Oh. Oh, how _amusing_! Antonio found himself, in a brief moment of total self-loss, laughing down the phone, having already found humour in the way venom dripped out of Lovino’s mouth when he said Francis’ name. Gosh, he really didn’t like the Frenchie, did he?

“What’s funny, you bastard?!”

Oops—too much laughter! “ _You_ , Lovino,” Antonio said, quickly composing himself. “Though I guess that’s always been the case. You are _quite_ the funny one.”

“…What’s this about?”

“Come on over to the flat.”

“No—”

“It’s not a question—I’m telling you to come over,” the Spaniard said, though he soon went about injecting his tone with as much overtly exaggerated happiness he could bring himself to muster: “Have a coffee with me.”

Lovino took a moment to contemplate it (or, rather, to decide how crazy his friend really was, Antonio smiled) before slowly coming back to the moment. “Ten minutes work for you?”

“Sure,” came the jovial reply. “See you then!”

Antonio didn’t look at Francis as he returned the mobile phone, nor did he pay any mind to any little movements his brother made behind him; he needed to do this, and no one was going to try and talk him out of it. The train was on the move. The coal was burning in its steel belly, and there was no taking it back out now that it was burning bright.

His hands fell into his lap as his eyes fell upon the wall opposite. Like a book, he read it, his thoughts and feelings writing themselves in his blank ink upon its light surface as they manifested in his mind. _Honesty is the best policy_ , they read. _Leave them all in the dirt_ , others roared at him.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He needed quiet. He needed peace. He needed—

The front door opened and shut very quietly, but everyone heard it and hearts stopped beating for the brief moment in which Gilbert, slow and sluggish, reappeared in the small space that formed the hallway. No one seemed to move to acknowledge him; Antonio remained in his quiet space as he tried to organise his thoughts, and he heard no movement from behind him or his side, so he assumed that everyone else was the same.

And then there _was_ movement. It was calm, unsure of itself and seemingly anxious, but he paid it no mind. His thoughts were still whirring and fighting each other— _speak to them—fight them—forgive them—hate them—_ and it was an excruciatingly painful civil war. It was Antonio versus Antonio—victim versus warrior—and then a new combatant suddenly appeared and took his hands in theirs with such care and attention and—

He slapped Gilbert around the face and the German, who had been crouched, it turned out, was knocked to the ground in shock and a sharp, burning pain.

“ _Toni!_ ” Francis choked out, apparently horrified by the resounding crack of the hit.

“What the fuck, irm—”

“ _Don’t. Touch me,_ ” the Spaniard hissed at Gilbert over his brother’s outraged cries. The war had been interfered in and the revolutionaries just got a whole lot more vocal. “Don’t you fucking _dare._ ”

A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back—back against the sofa. “Calm down, Toni,” Afonso said. “Don’t make things worse—”

“As if they _could_ get any worse, maldito cabrón!” the younger snapped, fending off the offensive hand—success!

Antonio stood up off the couch before anyone could get their grimy hands on him—all over him, all over his skin—and he took the defensive stood in front of his beloved, corner armchair. This way, he could see them all. He could watch all of them. He could see all of their movements, the thoughts that brushed over their faces, every single muscle twitch and quirk that told him some kind of secret.

“You seriously need to calm down,” his brother told him, but—

“Stop— Just stop trying to control me!” he demanded. “You can’t keep doing this! You can’t keep dictating my life!”

“I’m not trying to fucking _control you_ ,” Afonso replied, however, his voice just as loud and stern and confused. “I’m trying to stop you from doing something stupid that you’ll come to regret!”

“Like what, Fonso?! Like— Like hurting someone?” Antonio cried, even throwing a hand to Gilbert, still silent and redundant on the floor, as he tried to make his point explicitly clear. “Like hitting them, kicking them— Forcing them to do things that they _really_ don’t want to do?”

Afonso stopped in his tracks and warily looked at the German. “Did… Did you…?”

“No, funnily enough,” Antonio answered on Gilbert’s behalf, “though I’m not sure you would’ve believed me if I told you so, hermano querido. Sure, there were scary moments. Moments where I— I thought it _was_ , but you know, I’m the one who offered—” His right eye narrowed, twitched, accused. “—so I guess it was perfectly acceptable. Right?”

A whimper or something of the like came from the apparently and suddenly remorseful Gilbert, but all Antonio did was sneer and remind him that he had no voice. That he had no right to say anything, because he _knew_ what he’d done, and there was no way in Hell Antonio was going to let himself fall for the charms and appeals and love again.

Never, ever again, he promised himself.

And then there was the peace he had wanted, horror and shock and bewilderment and fear all simmering underneath the serene, unstable surface. In effect, he realised, Antonio had hit all of them, not just Gilbert. They were now all aware of—all bearing witness to—the things that he had tried to hide away and justify and forgive for such a long time, and they couldn’t seem to grasp the very idea. Ha, how the tables had turned!

Or, perhaps not yet—not entirely.

“Antonio, it might be best if you have a seat,” Francis said quietly (timidly, as though he were a child afraid of a monster hiding in his cupboard), pleading in his eyes. “Just so you’re… Comfortable…?”

“Oh.”

“… _oh_ — _?_ ”

“Are you _asking_ me or _telling_ me?”

“…asking,” the blonde answered. “I just think it might help—”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

This seemed to catch Francis, now stunned, completely off guard. Antonio lowered himself onto his chair and sat close to the edge of the soft seat, leaning forwards, eyes remaining vigilant behind the relaxed façade they presented.

“Sorry,” he said, though, to no one in particular—and certainly not Gilbert. “I guess I got a bit… Carried away. Is this better?”

Francis only nodded. He wondered in that moment—a brief, sane moment—if perhaps he had broken Francis’ resolve just as his own had been broken by his different lovers over the past four years of his life. The blonde seemed so empty. So hollow. It was almost as if he were looking into a mirror of sorts, where Antonio could see himself in his Frenchie, and he almost felt sorry for the man and guilty about what he had been put through.

Because in reality, Francis was probably the least of all the Evils that surrounded him. Better to have someone who loves and cares about you too much than someone who only loved and cared about you in the mornings-after-the-night-before. Sickness twisted in his stomach, then. Francis didn’t truly deserve as much grief as he was getting. He probably understood now—far better than anyone else, in fact—and there was no need for him to stay there and endure any more.

And yet, Antonio wanted him to stay, too. He didn’t want to let him run from this. He wanted the blonde to see just how far this had gone and what he had missed, or what he had failed to notice, so that he would not come to make the same mistake again in his future with whoever came to bless it.

“So,” Afonso piped up, breaking the silence and Antonio’s focus. “What now?”

Someone knocked on the door.

The Spaniard smiled on the inside.

“We have a visitor,” he said simply. “Does someone want to get the door?”

Francis (good, sweet, generous Francis) offered and made his way past a shuffling, lame albino, towards the front door. In the meantime, Antonio tried to fix himself—his posture, his mind, his mentality—and he had to shoot the German a harsh look when he made another move to grovel. _Pathetic._

In the end, Afonso decided it would be best to at least get Gilbert (filthy, tainted, messy Gilbert) off the floor and onto a sofa, even if it involved roughly hoisting him up and carelessly moving him in the general direction of a soft landing. It was funny, really, to see Afonso all defensive like this. If only he had acted with such dedication and love all those times Antonio had called him…

“What the fuck happened to _you_?”

Lovino’s voice was welcome in one way out of the few possibilities, and Antonio wore a smile as the Italian took in the sight of Gilbert trying to pull himself together on the couch in front of the kitchen. The red was now visible on his cheek. It was not quite in the shape of a hand, though he was sure that even Lovino could work out what had formed it.

“Don’t mind him,” the Spaniard remarked, “he’s had a long day. Have a seat—Francis can join you.”

“I’d rather not—”

“ _Just. Do it._ ”

Usually Lovino was not someone who appeared perturbed or easily disturbed by others—not overtly, at least—but it was as clear as day what he was thinking as Antonio’s eyes bore into his own. _Sit down,_ the older brunette seemed to demand of him, _and only speak when asked to._ Being in power like this was fun. Having this— This _dominance_ over people. Was this the same kick that Arthur and Gilbert had felt during their ‘rough patches’? It was beginning to grow on him. It was beginning to hold him tight, like his new fix.

“Okay, now that everyone is here and in attendance,” Antonio said with a chipper tone, “we may now begin the trial.”

“ _Trial?_ ” Afonso repeated questioningly. It seemed that he had beaten Lovino to the same question. “What do you mean?”

“I told you this was a summons, no?” the younger brother replied, innocent and playful. “Although everyone else here had pretty much discovered their faults, Lovino has his own crimes that must be judged. That is why he’s here.”

“Are you kidding?” the Italian scoffed. “I’m not here to play games, Toni—I came because you sounded like you needed my _help_.”

Antonio hummed, supressing a laugh. “Oh, _Lovi,_ ” he sang, “I’ve needed your help many times in the past, let’s face it! But I guess it’s good to see you’re finally up to the challenge of being a friend, hm?”

Lovino cast a glance to the others in the room, but even Antonio knew, without breaking his own gaze, that all of their faces would show the ghosts of their own comeuppances, the varying levels of guilt and sympathy that they probably felt for the poor, oblivious Italian.

What a _joke_.

“What’s this about, exactly?” the Italian eventually asked, slow and defensive—and rightly so.

“This is about you realising—just like everyone else here has—that you, my friend, are not a good person,” Antonio explained to him carefully. He could see the way that Lovino grew more and more uncomfortable under the accusatory gaze. “That you are a guilty party.”

“And what crime am I being accused of, huh?” Lovino retorted, his tone built up high on his reluctance to understand and think for himself. _Lazy._

But it was not Antonio to speak up, this time.

“Lovino, you need to know that—” Go on, Francis, Antonio urged him on, say it out loud. “That Antonio has had to deal with some of the most— _horrid_ things on his own, because of us…”

“Because of _you_ , you mean.”

Francis blinked, confused, and he wasn’t alone in that sentiment—Antonio was astounded. “What are you saying?” the blonde asked.

“That _you_ and _Gilbert_ are responsible for any shit he’s had to go through,” Lovino practically spat (thought whether that stemmed from guilt, anger or just his general disliking of Francis was unclear for the remainder of the room). “He’s said it enough times—you’re both killing him slowly.”

Oh, this was becoming more entertaining by the second!

“Ah, ah, ah!” Antonio said with a tut, a disapproving, parental finger wagging in the air. But he didn’t frown. He had a look on his face that screamed superiority and knowledge and a different kind of teasing. “Lovi, don’t be so quick to point fingers,” he warned, “because they may have cocked the gun and pulled the trigger, but you walked by, saw the wound, and did nothing to stop the bleeding.”

Suddenly, Lovino looked furious. “Are you trying to fucking imply that I—”

“I’m implying nothing,” the Spaniard interrupted. “It’s a statement. You and Afonso walked past, hand in hand, and _left me in the dirt_.”

It seemed that Lovino was unable to properly swallow those words. It was as though they didn’t quite register in his head. Those poor, naïve, youthful olive eyes turned to everyone in the room—to everyone who would look at him at least—and it was clear that he was beginning to feel the exact same guilt and shame as the rest of them.

Because deep down, he knew what he had done wrong, and he knew that he had wronged the guy who had been his best friend for several years, now. A friendship like theirs was supposed to be built on trust, honesty, some drunken misadventures here and there, and communication. Out of all of those things, however, Antonio could only vouch for the alcohol-fuelled endeavours, and to think that… It hurt just as much as the times when Lovino would put the phone down on a friend in need.

Yes, when he thought about it, what sort of friendship did they actually have?

“I’m not going to cause an argument over this with you,” he continued, trying to maintain are more controlled stance, “but I just want you to know that this… This is _not_ how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t friendship. And I don’t want it anymore—whatever ‘it’ even is.”

For once, Lovino had nothing to say.

“And the same goes for everyone else in here,” Antonio announced, rising from his seat and sparing no one a glance other than Lovino, who only stared at his feet. He looked ready to cry, or scream. “I don’t want anything to do with any of you. Not now. Not for a long while, if not ever again.”

In fact, for once, _no one_ had anything to say.

“What? Suddenly all of you have forgotten how to speak?” he questioned, a bemused, disbelieving look on his face as he looked to them all expectantly. “Have you all run out of clever things to say?”

“Is there anything left _to_ say?”

Antonio looked at Lovino blankly, his face having dropped. “Is there… _Not_?”

“You’ve made what you want clear, haven’t you? To all of us?” the Italian said. He was much quieter than Antonio knew him to be. When had that changed? “Why should we stop you from doing what you think is best for yourself?”

“I…”

No. No, he wasn’t allowed to do this. Conflict— _conflict,_ his conscience cried out in desperation. How were they all willing to give in…? Lovino looked up at him with naught but pity and apology, and Francis, at his side, had adopted a similar repentant stance. Afonso… He couldn’t seem to bring himself to look at his brother, and as for Gilbert, he— He was sobbing silently to  himself, tucked into a ball in his own little, messed up world.

And Antonio blinked out a tear for them all.

“Am I that easy to let go?” the black inside of him said. “Am I that easy to discard and replace?”

But now he felt so very, very small. Maybe he _was_. Maybe that had been the problem all along—maybe he had never made himself someone _worth_ having around. Arthur and Gilbert tossed him about like a bag of rubbish or a scrunched-up ball of paper that just kept missing the bin. Lovino stepped cautiously over him like he was a piece of gum on the pavement that threatened to stick to his shoes. Afonso danced around him as if he were a broken bottle, a pile of sharp, contaminated green fragments on the ground. And Francis? Francis stood and looked at him, a small bear that had been dropped by a child in a muddy puddle, with that sad, sad look…

“Do you all hate me so much that _no one_ will fight—that no one will try to hold on?”

“Lovino’s right,” his brother responded, resigned and distant yet so, _so_ close. “We shouldn’t stop you from doing what you think will help you most. It’s the least we can do, now…”

Afonso tread carefully through the glassy minefield, eyes meeting the shattered green shards, making sure that he didn’t stand on a single piece and accidentally hurt himself—and hoping that no child from the nearby park got hurt either... It took only a brief moment, but soon, he cleared the hurdle and continued his casual walk, not looking behind him.

“We shouldn’t…” Lovino paused to breathe. To think. “This is the only way to try and make things better. For everyone—but especially for you.”

Lovino leant against the postbox, silent and focused, and he took a pen from his blazer pocket to try and flick away the gum that had plastered itself to his sleek brogue. It took a few attempts, a few muttered pleas, but soon enough, the gum flew away into the street and he could proceed down the road without a worry.

“Y-You shouldn’t have to b-be here,” an albino said, broken and beat and tired and strangely hushed, “if all it does is h-hurt…”

Gilbert watched in stoic tranquillity as the working men came along and took away the bins, eyeing the black bags of rubbish as they vanished into the belly of the truck, gone for good. He watched until they drove away, waving off the workers, and then he shut the front door of his dream house and moved on with his life.

“Mon lapin, _this_ …” Francis said to him as he rose from his seat and approached the brunette, taking Antonio’s hands in his own and squeezing them with a tremble: “ _This_ has to be your choice. And you have to put yourself first.” He placed his forehead against the other’s. “Please, for once in your life, Toni… Be selfish…”

Francis picked up the lost bear, all soaked and dirtied and stained, and he brushed off the droplets of old rain he could see. _Poor guy_ , he thought with a sad smile, before he sat the toy on the windowsill of the shop he was passing so it could be found some day and taken to a loving home. _I wish you luck_ , he bid. And then he pocketed his hands and walked, freeing himself from the poor bear’s tale.

“Then…” The Spaniard stopped, green meeting blue and then blurring ever so slightly as he stole back his hands. “Then I suppose it is time for me to go…”

And so Antonio walked the lonely, neglected road in the flickering light of an ancient lamppost, onwards towards the barren scape of Beyond, past where the postboxes and children playing in parks and garbage trucks and shop windowsills continued to exist in harmony—a place where he no longer seemed to belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I cried when I wrote this originally. Like damn, I really put Antonio through so much in this story, and the ending just sort of hurt. 
> 
> But it's good. It's real. Not everyone can have a happy ending, right?
> 
> I am currently working on a short epilogue. It shouldn't take long to put out, but this... This is the end of the world Toni tried to create for himself with these people. He's walked away.
> 
> Do you think he made the right choice? Do you think he could have done anything differently? Let me know in the comments. It's been wonderful to have you guys along this far, so don't hesitate to comment now and give me any sort of feedback! 
> 
> And in the meantime, I need to pick what story I'm writing to help me get over this one and fix the hole in my heart uwu;


	12. Now's Our Curtain Call; Hold For The Applause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka The Epilogue

The fresh air, for the first time, had felt truly fresh that morning as he walked outside. It was a new city, a new environment, and it was something that had taken a couple of months to get to, but the wait and effort was worth it.

Antonio had a grip on life—on himself—for the first time in five years.

He had waved goodbye to the lady who ran the bookstore with a smile, grabbed his suitcase, and not looked back. Now it was February, approaching his birthday once more, and he was looking forward to that night on his own: no one else to bother him, no one to pester him, no one else to worry about.

It was funny to think that that had been his life not long ago—though, funny in a weird way, rather than a laugh-your-socks-off way. No one who passed him in streets would be able to tell the torment that had existed in his soul. The pain he had endured for such a long time. The rivers and oceans he had cried for the two weeks following his step out into the truly independent world. Not a single soul could tell other than his own.

And what was wrong with that? Nothing, he professed. He was his own person, and it would be a long while before that would change, he reminded himself as he stepped into the local market in search of some fresh ingredients for the evening meal he had planned to cook.

He had a day off work, which consisted of working in an apartment-renting agency with a small team of very international people—not too bad, though not quite as tranquil as the old bookshop. Still, they were amicable people. He had made friends over the past month and knew that they would be temporary (because he had no plans of staying in the office forever) but he still did his best to socialise with them.

Like that night, in fact.

He had been invited out with some of his colleagues to a local bar for a drink and a chat now that the week was over, and the business had officially secured three more holiday flats which meant profits and— Yeah, he wasn’t as enthusiastic as some of them, but it was fine. Let them drink. He would keep it soft and simple and cheap.

God, he wasn’t in the mood. No one had got the hint, but whatever. He would enjoy his home-cooked meal, go out for an hour and then make an excuse to go home and sleep. It would be easy. It was Saturday; he could have a lie-in tomorrow, have a long bath, not worry about paperwork, call his—

“Toni?”

The brunette halted in his tracks, his brain switching tracks for a second and telling his heart to hurry up, too, and he slowly drew his gaze to the person who had called him. He could see blonde, and there was definitely green— _It can’t be—!_

It was Martín from the office. He breathed out calmly as the blonde walked over. Martín hailed from Argentina and happened to be the only other person Antonio could speak Spanish to in the area, which wouldn’t have been so bad if Martín were a little less self-centred and loud. But, alas…

“You still coming out tonight? Mathias said you’d probably be having second thoughts—”

“Why would he say something like that?” Antonio asked him, brow quirked. What business was it of Mathias? The Dane ought to focus on his own problems and affairs, not—!

“Ah, who knows?” Martín shrugged. “If you’re coming, then it doesn’t matter! You can rub it in his face!”

“That’s such a ‘you’ thing to say,” the Spaniard remarked, shaking his head as he continued to throw things into his basket, now only half-focused. “There’s nothing to rub in—I was never not going.”

The blonde followed him for a little longer as he meandered through the aisles, catching him up on the gossip of the last twenty-four hours (which was apparently bountiful, though, Friday evenings were always quite wild for these simple office folk) and killing out some more brain cells. It was nearly ten minutes later when Martín parted ways, another five before Antonio had successfully escaped the shop, and a further fifteen before he arrived back at his apartment.

Six hours until Martín would pick him up (which meant that Martín already had plans to drink and dump himself on Antonio’s couch that night like the troublesome child he liked to be) was what the clock told him, so, he read a book for a bit, cooked, ate and freshened up. Once he emerged back into the living room, donning a smart-casual look in shades of blue (a new look), the six hours had almost entirely flown by.

As he sat on his sofa, continuing with his book, his phone lit up with a newly-arrived text message. Huh. Go figure. Assuming it was probably just one of the team, he unlocked his phone and brought up the message—only to see that the number at the top of the screen was not a contact on his phone.

Not anymore, it wasn’t.

_Hope you’re ok, haven’t heard from you but I just want you to know that I still think of you each day m. cher xx_

Francis.

He hadn’t been the only one to text Antonio like this—he had had a couple of messages through from Gilbert, his brother called daily (thought Toni had only recently taken it upon himself to answer) and Lovino checked in on him from time to time, too. Even Arthur, come to think of it, had text him about two months ago asking where he was. He hadn’t heard from him since, thankfully.

But, Antonio did not reply to Francis. He left the message where it was, read and neglected, as he turned his phone off. A knock on the door came—Martín—and with that the Spaniard upped and left his flat, leaving his phone and its contents behind. There would be none of that tonight. He needed a break, and maybe a drink after all.

The car journey wasn’t horrendous. Maybe it was because Martín didn’t seem to be talking as much, but then, maybe _that_ was because he was only half-listening to what the Argentine had to say, nodding absently and humming whenever a sentence finished. Normally, he would try to engage, but now Antonio had other things on his mind. Like who would be there to keep his mind focused on anything but his past, anything but that text and the person who had sent it.

He was in luck.

There were five of the already there at the bar sat in a booth, though, they assured their Hispanic co-workers that they’d only been there for about ten minutes. Martín had brushed it off on both of their behalf and unwittingly led Antonio towards the alcohol. The Spaniard, having passed on what he was having along with the rounded cash, looked back at the table; they were a mix of people he knew and spoke to and one person he had only seen in passing, and he was sure that this would be slow at first.

Brilliant…

“Martini and a G&T,” he heard the bartended from behind say, and a smile came to his face as he picked up his glass.

“A martini? Really?” he remarked. “Are you really that vain?”

“Are you really that _old_?”

Antonio’s face fell flat. “I’m not even two years older than you, and you know it,” he retorted. “Unless you want me to start calling you a kid, of course.”

“ _Don’t,_ ” the blonde said, “ _get any ideas._ ”

And with that they sat down with everybody else, so now there was Antonio, Martín, Basch, Mathias, Tino, Toris and some guy from Australia called Jett that the brunette had not formally met yet. Yeah, definitely a mixed bunch. But being the friendly person that he was, Antonio greeted them all equally, and an hour later, the table was filled with laughter and empty glasses and joy—but he was still a little distant from the rest.

Conversation had recently switched to relationships, you see. Of the people at the table, four had partners of various degrees, and they were all happy: Martín had recently found himself a girlfriend (no one thought it would last); Mathias had a long-term boyfriend; Tino was married; and Toris may not have been far behind in that respect. Basch, in the meantime, claimed to have no interest in that sort of thing, and Jett was waiting for the right person to come along.

_Ha, with you there,_ he had thought to himself, but now, sat at the table listening to how well things were going for the enamoured, he made an excuse to go back up to bar and grab some drinks—anything to get away and have a breather.

He placed the order with one of that bartenders and decided to take a seat on a stool, given that it would take a couple of minutes to get each drink done and pay, and the longer he was sat there, the more likely the conversation would have switched again once he had returned to his table.

“I’m over it,” he told himself—lied to himself?—but it seemed he hadn’t realised that he had said so in earshot of another being sat only two stool away.

“Over what?”

Antonio, hesitant and now wide-eyed, turned his gaze upon the stranger and he gave a “Hm?” in the hopes that the other would leave him be.

“I’m not trying to pry,” he replied, however, “but you said you were over something. I was curious what you meant.”

“Oh.” _Oh fuck._ “It’s nothing important, don’t worry,” Antonio replied, but he could spy out of the corner of his eye the way the stranger looked over their shoulder at the laughing table—Antonio’s table—and put two and two together all on his own. _Mega fuck._

“They’re loud…”

“Tell me about it.”

“Annoying?”

“Only when they want to be.”

They both seemed to smile between themselves, a mutual understanding.

“Who are you here with? Friends?”

“Uh—” How could he put it? “—kind of… But I think it would be more appropriate to call them colleagues. This is as good as socialising gets.”

“I see. I know how that feels,” the stranger remarked, taking a sip of a drink they had just been handed by a bartender, who had whizzed off as quickly as they had appeared. Antonio was intrigued, suddenly, a brow raising.

“Why, who are _you_ here with?”

“Colleagues,” the stranger replied with a shrug, and then they smiled again. “but that’s as good as it gets.”

“I guess we have as much luck as each other, then,” Antonio commented sheepishly, his thoughts drifting to friends left behind and still unaware of why he had left them in the dust…

“Apparently so.” And then, just like that, the stranger turned a little and held a hand out to the other brunette; “Heracles.”

“Antonio,” he replied, though it took a moment for him to take the hand and shake it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you, Antonio. Spanish?”

“It’s that obvious?”

“You don’t sound Italian, if that’s what you mean.”

“Hm, I’ll take that. What about you? Can’t say ‘Heracles’ is a name I’m familiar with…”

“Greek.”

“Oh, that’s new.”

And it went on from there. Antonio learnt more about Heracles over a drink, having to ask a waiter on the floor to take the drinks over to his now abandoned table of workmates, and the night continued to tick by as they spoke more, drank more, and got to know each other more. And as you can imagine, once a person has consumed enough alcohol, sometimes things are said that don’t want to be said.

When Heracles had taken it upon himself to asked Antonio whether there was anyone significant in his life, it had caused a sudden surge in his brain and his veins and his heart. He hadn’t meant to say anything—he hadn’t meant to spill the beans in such a way—but he had: Antonio had unwillingly confessed something that he shouldn’t have, and it felt as though, once it was done, all of the silence and awkwardness in the world sat between them.

“I had a few—three,” he had told him, “but you know, stuff like that doesn’t last in my world. Too many bumps—bumps in the night, bumps into doors—and I guess in the end, I was tired of it… So, there’s no one, and I’m better for it.”

He hadn’t said anything explicitly but the look on Heracles’ face said it all.

“Wh…What..?”

“Bumps into doors?”

He flinched when he heard the words come from another. “Yeah..?”

“That’s a euphemism.”

“Yeah…”

“But you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Over three months in the clear; I think it’s fine, honest,” Antonio replied, but now he felt dumb, and pushed his drink away from himself as he made to get up and leave before he did anything else he would regret. “Sorry, I— I think it’s best I go.”

Ha, how funny, he thought as he spied the table he had been sat at: everyone was gone. They had all left, and fairly recently judging by the glasses still sat on the table. What luck. He took a deep breath and slid off the stool.

“I don’t want to make anything worse—”

Hands steadied him as he stood up straight, and Antonio noticed a newfound ache in his head and a lightness to it he hadn’t felt only ten seconds prior. He blinked, thinking it would get rid of the symptoms, but it was to no avail.

“Are you okay?” he heard Heracles asked; he brushed him off and tried to tell him he was fine, but that was just as successful as the blinking. “I think you need to sit down… You look a bit tired…”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” the Spaniard found himself saying with a laugh, “but sure, we’ll go with that.”

“Here,” Heracles said, “I can walk you home—”

“Not a child!”

“—if you want. To make sure you get there safely.”

That… That was… _Safely?_ Ha, maybe he didn’t want to get home safely? It was a thought that was vocalised—a fact he was unaware of in his declining state—and from there things got a little hazy. Someone was escorting him out of the bar, the last he remembered for certain, and then there was cold, wind, and a long and dark walk to somewhere he didn’t know. Somewhere he didn’t recognise.

But whatever, he was tired! As soon as he was presented with something to sleep on, he made no objections (nor waited for any invitation) and collapsed down on the big soft thing he had seen in the blurred light of what must’ve been Heracles’ home.

Then, he woke up. It wasn’t a nice, gentle rise, either, but rather one that consisted of suddenly jolting upright as one did when escaping a nightmare. For Antonio, said nightmare was as hazy as the night before had been in the bar, but this time, blinking got rid of the blurriness and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a yawn.

A… Sofa? Damn, his head hurt… A noise was coming from somewhere nearby, but he paid it no mind as he went to stand up, still quite unsteady on his feet, and he tried to piece together what had happened last night: he had gone out with Martín, had a drink, met a stranger at the bar, kept talking, said too much… And then it was just— _nothing._ Absolutely nothing. Was this how amnesiacs felt? Fuck, that was rough…

Something brushed against his leg. It took a full five seconds for him to register this, of course, but when Antonio looked down, he spied a fluffy cat and concluded that he definitely wasn’t at home.

So where was he—? Oh. _Oh. Oh no, why—_

“The stranger’s house,” he said to himself, a hand on his sore back and the other at his forehead, still trying to fend off his headache. “Why, why, _why do I do this to myself?_ ”

What was the man’s name? Greek. Uh… Mythology? Like, Perseu— No, no, it wasn’t that. Hercules? Ah, it would have to do!

So, he was in Hercules’ home. What an interesting turn of events, he narrated as he walked around and took in his surroundings. It was a fairly clean apartment, the living room leading straight into a well-sized kitchen, modern and sleek in design. The sun came invading through the windows above the sink, and he had to shield his eyes for a moment, but he soon adjusted to it again. Dumb Sun… Dumb Antonio…

The room was warm all the while. He noted a used cup and plate by the sink which must have belonged to Hercules, and continued to look around the nice, well-lighted space before—

Oh, there was a note? His brows furrowed as he saw his name at the top of it scrawled in rushed (or maybe it wasn’t?) handwriting and he picked it up of the kitchen side, where it had been placed carefully alongside a cereal bar and an apple. It was short, but it was kind, and Antonio found himself smiling at it all the same:

_Antonio,_

_Hope the sofa was okay and the cats didn’t bother you too much. Have breakfast. Off to work – back at 5. Let me know you get back home safely._

_Please._

_\- Heracles_

Ah, not Hercules at all, then! But, even so, the man seemed to care at least a little about the silly Spaniard that had drunk his way into his life, even if only for a brief moment. Was this what his life was now? Bumping into strangers at bars and throwing himself onto their sofas? Lord, he hoped not…

Heracles had provided his number at the bottom of the piece of paper, nonetheless, and there was something about that to spoke out to Antonio, sober and tucking into the maple and pecan granola bar. He had gone out of his way to make sure that he had been alright last night, he had kept him company, he had brought him into his home and allowed him to throw himself onto his sofa, he had left him a simple yet satisfying breakfast snack, and he had written him a note…

Maybe, he thought to himself, looking back at the letters written out for him on the scrap piece of paper, this was a step in the _right_ right direction.

A meow came from down by his feet—the noise from when he had woken up, he realised—and he smiled down at the tabby cat with the smile and gratefulness he was to reserve for another.

“Mm, perhaps,” Antonio said, crouching down to scratch the gentle animal behind the ears, “it could even be a leap…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over, just like that. 
> 
> Was that ending a bit abrupt? Ha, oh well—
> 
> Damn, if I honestly go back three months this is nothing like what I had originally in store for this story, but I think it worked out better in this way. This is perhaps a better read than the original... Eh.
> 
> So, dear readers, what do you think of Antonio's future? Will it be fine, will it be better than his past? Do we think he's found a friend in Heracles, or something more? Was Martín drinking a martini really so vain?
> 
> I will probably write a stort update for this story one day as a separate entity. Not yet, but at some point. There's several characters for me to look at within this story as well as Antonio after he walked away, and I think there's potential in what has been left unsaid.
> 
> Let me know what you think, anywho—this story took up 73 pages of a Word document and I hate odd numbers...
> 
> For now, my friends, that is a wrap on this story. Thank you so much for sticking around if you've been here from the start, and if any of you have only just shown up and binge read a few or all of these chapters, I hope you have not been traumatised c:
> 
> I wish you all a wonderful day and hope that your new year goes as promisingly as Antonio's. Until next time, hasta hasta!
> 
> \- Helia  
> (en. 2019)
> 
> P.S. anyone who wants to diss Gin and Tonic like Martín can honestly fight me, give me a time and place.


End file.
